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C|e  €nxBt  q{  l|e  Mage. 


THE 


CURSE  or  THE  VILLAGE. 


By  Hendrik  Conscience, 

Author  of  "The  Village  Innkeeper,"  "The  Happiness  of  Being  Rich,"  "Veta,'' 

"The  Lion  op  Flanders,"  "Count  Hugo  of  Craenhove,"  " Wooden  Clara," 

"Ricketicketack,"  "The  Demon  of  Gold,"  "The  Poor  Gentleman," 

"The Conscript,"  "Blind  Rosa,"  "The  Amulet,"  "The  Miser," 

"The  FisHEftHAM '8  Daughter,"  ETC 


^xwnshttii  (Kjtpresslg  for  t^is  dbitio;:. 


BALTIMORE: 

Published  by  John  Murphy  &  Co. 

182  Baltimore  Street, 
Sold  by  Booksellers  Generally. 


FTloUU 


frffiite  }0  i\t  ^wmimx  (^Viimi 


The  "  Curse  of  the  Village  "  is  a  bold  descrip- 
tion, of  the  ravages  of  intemperance, — that  bane  of 
vilhiges  in  the  Old  World  as  well  as  the  New. 
This  talc  is  one  of  his  latest  additions  to  the  charm- 
ing sketches  of  Flemish  life,  for  which  the  author  is 
so  celebrated. 

We  are  not  anxious  to  forestall  public  opinion  of 
M.  Conscience ;  but  we  must  observe  that  both  in 
his  subjects  and  style  he  unites  many  of  the  peculiari- 
ties of  Scott,  Dickens,  and  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 
His  romances  possess  the  varied  interest,  the  rapid 
narrative,  and  the  bold  grouping  of  the  first  of  these 
distinguished  writers ;  while  his  everyday  stories 
are  full  of  the  nature,  simplicity,  humor,  and  pathos 
that  have  made  Boz  and  Andersen,  household  names 
throughout  our  country.  A  British  writer  has  well 
remarked  that  the  characteristics  of  his  works  "  are 
a  hearty,  sincere  appreciation  and  love  of  the  simple 
life  of  the  poor  in  all  its  forms ;  a  genial  sympathy 
with  its  occupations,  its  joys  and  sorrows ;  a  recog- 
nition of  its  dignity  ,  and  an  earnest,  reverent  treat- 
ment of  all  conditions." 

102 


THE 

CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


It  was  afternoon,  and  two  peasants  were  slowly 
wending  their  vray  homeward  from  a  neighbor- 
ing town.  Their  path  lay  through  one  of  the 
loveliest  landscapes  of  Ilageland.*  It  was  near 
the  crest  of  a  hill,  and  was  hewn  out  of  the  brown 
ironstone,  and  then  it  wound  along  in  numberless 
gentle  curves  over  hills  and  through  quiet  dells  to 
their  village,  which  lay  below  them  in  the  dis- 
tance, there  where  a  little  spire,  surmounted  by  a 
gilded  cross,  gleamed  amidst  the  dusky  foliage. 
On  one  side  of  the  way  rose  the  massive  wall  of 
ironstone, —  its  dark  hue  relieved  and  adorned 
with  the  exquisite  green  and  purple  of  brambles 


*  Hageland  is  a  tract  of  Belgium,  beginning  at  the  foot  of  the 
hills  at  Aerschot  and  Diest,  and  stretching  away  beyond  S.  Tron 
ind  Tirlemont,  in  the  direction  of  the  Limbourgeois.  The  mos> 
beautiful  part  of  it  is  above  Aerschot. 

9 


10  THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

and  thorns,  and  other  climhing  shrubs  and  flow- 
ers. Above  these,  rose  .stern  and  inaccessible 
peaks  of  mountains,  which  shut  in  the  view  in 
that  direction;  but  at  intervals  the  ground  sank 
down  into  a  graceful  valley,  and  then  the  eye  of 
the  traveller  could  range  unobstructed  over  the 
whole  landscape,  and  watch  the  low  lines  of  dark 
firs  which  marked  the  undulating  ridge  of  the 
distant  hills,  and,  now  expanding,  now  contract- 
ing their  masses  of  green,  but  ever  quieter  and 
softer  in  tone,  died  away  at  length  into  the  blue 
mist  which  curtained  the  horizon. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  road,  the  torrents 
which  rush  down  the  mountain-side  in  Winter  had 
cloven  for  themselves  a  broad  channel  in  the  iron- 
stone ;  and  beyond  this  noisy  stream  stretched  a 
vast  expanse  of  cultivated  land,  the  well-defined 
patches  of  which  ran  up  the  sides  of  a  farther 
range  of  hills,  and  seemed  to  hang  like  variegated 
tapestry  from  their  rugged  shoulders. 

It  was  autumn.  The  sun  of  the  waning  year 
shone  with  fervid  glow  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  and 
played  in  countless  changeful  tints  among  the 
half-decayed  foliage.  Although  its  rays  were  yet 
powerful,  there  lay  beneath  the  distant  woods  the 
purple  hue  which  shows  that  the  air  is  cooler  than 
the  earth,  and  the  mist  of  evening  was  creeping 
slowly  up  the  hill-side. 

From  the  eminence  to  which  their  path  had 
conducted  them,  our  two  travellers  might  have 


THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  11 

seen  the  whole  country  for  leagues  around,  and 
enjoyed  the  magnificent  picture  that  nature,  in 
her  peaceful  autumn  mood,  had  spread  out  before 
them ;  but  they  seemed  to  take  but  small  notice 
of  it,  and  continued  their  journey  in  unbroken 
silence. 

The  one  was  an  old  man  with  gray  hair  and  a 
countenance  set  wuth  deep  wrinkles.  Although 
his  back  was  slightly  bent  by  the  pressure  of 
years,  he  stepped  out  lightly  along  the  road,  and 
apparently  did  not  lean  upon  the  medlar-tree 
staff,  which  was  attached  to  his  wrist  by  a  thong 
of  leather.  His  eyes,  too,  were  still  clear  and 
bright,  aild  the  calm,  earnest  expression  of  his 
whole  face  betokened  great  courage  and  a  firm 
will. 

An  ample  felt  hat  of  antique  fashion  partially 
concealed  his  w^hite  hairs,  while  a  brown  cloak, 
equally  old-fashioned  in  shape,  hung  down  almost 
to  his  heels.  These  clothes  the  good  man  had 
w^orn  as  he  knelt  before  the  altar  when  he  and 
his  Elizabeth  w^ere  made  one  in  holy  wedlock. 
He  had  kept  them  with  scrupulous  care,  for  they 
had  cost  him  much; — it  was  now  six-and- twenty 
years  ago,  and  even  yet  they  came  to  the  light 
only  when  he  was  going  to  church  or  betaking 
himself  to  the  town  on  business. 

The  companion  who  stepped  out  by  his  side 
was  a  young  fellow  on  whose  merry  face  beamed 
nealth  and  vigor.  A  gay  cloth  cap  hung  over  his 
left  ear,  and  allowed  his  brown  hair  to  fall  in 


12  THE    CURSE   OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

clustering  curls  upon  his  shoulders;  the  ends  of  a 
variegated  neckerchief  fell  gracefully  on  hia 
breast  over  his  fine  blue  blouse.  His  black  ejeg 
shone  with  quiet  gladness;  a  sweet  half-smik 
played  about  his  mouth;  and  the  rapid  glances 
which  he  cast  around  him  from  time  to  time  were 
full  of  simple  innocence  and  gentle  trust  in  life. 
A  walking-stick,  from  which  hung  a  well-filled 
basket,  rested  on  his  right  shoulder,  and  the  hand 
which  grasped  the  stick  was  unusually  broad  and 
strong;  his  fingers  seemed  hardened  and  stift' 
with  labor,  and  so  this  young  peasant,  though 
scarcely  a  man  growm,  had  already  toiled  and 
slaved  much. 

For  some  time  the  old  man  walked  on  with  his 
bead  sunk  lower  upon  his  breast  than  was  his 
wont.  Apparently  some  profound  emotion  had 
touched  his  heart,  for  his  face  changed  its  expres- 
sion from  moment  to  moment,  and  he  seemed  as 
if  he  were  trying  to  digest  some  cause  of  vexation 
or  anger. 

His  companion  looked  at  him  in  silence,  and 
endeavored  to  read  in  his  countenance  the  cause 
of  his  disquietude;  and  there  was  in  the  look 
which  the  youth  kept  fixed  upon  the  face  of 
the  old  man,  as  they  w^alked  on,  a  quiet,  modest 
sympathy,  which  betokened  deep  respect  and 
veneration. 

At  length,  as  if  the  thoughts  of  the  old  man  had 
led  him  to  some  conclusion,  he  said,  in  an  ener- 
getic  tone  of  voice — 


THE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  13 

"Yes,  Luke,  my  son,  it  is  just  what  our  old 
pastor  says  sometimes,  with  a  smile: — when  the 
devil  saw  that  he  could  no  longer  catch  souls  fast 
enough,  he  turned  himself  into  gin.  And  since 
then,  hell  has  been  too  small." 

"Why  do  you  say  so,  father?"  asked  the  3'outh, 
in  astonishment. 

But  the  old  man  followed  on  undisturbed  the 
thread  of  his  meditation,  and  continued,  with  a 
contemptuous  smile — 

"What  more  despicable  creature  is  there  on 
earth  than  a  drunkard?  Indolent  and  careless, 
he  leaves  his  fields  unsown  and  overrun  with 
weeds;  he  sees,  without  a  blush  of  shame,  his 
purse  gradually  waste,  and  consumes,  like  a  silly 
sot,  the  little  that  he  has  earned.  His  wife  and 
children  live  in  sorrow  and  misery;  they  suffer 
hunger,  and  see  the  bitterest  wretchedness  stand 
threatening  at  their  door.  He,  meanwhile, 
dances,  sings,  shouts,  and  swears,  to  the  scandal 
of  the  whole  village;  he  tries  to  stifle  the 
gnawing  reproaches  of  his  conscience  by  yet 
wilder  excesses,  and  he  stifles  nothing  but  his 
soul  and  his  common  sense.  And  so  he  goes  on, 
from  bad  to  worse;  until  he  and  his  wretched 
family  are  forced  to  go  out  and  beg,  perhaps  at 
the  gate  of  the  very  farmyard  which  his  father 
had  rendered  productive  with  the  bitter  sweat  of 
his  brow,  in  order  to  leave  his  thankless  son  in  a 
decent  position.  Look  you:  when  I  think  of  it, 
my  blood  boils  in  my  veins.     Base  spendthrifts!" 


14  THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

Tlie  youth  looked  up  at  him  with  an  expressior. 
of  inquiring  amazement. 

"Look  at  my  hands,  look  at  my  face  and  my 
bent  back!"  continued  the  old  man,  with  increas- 
ing emotion.  "I  am  old  in  years,  and  worn  out 
by  fatigue.  I  was  early  left  an  orphan ;  my  pa- 
rents perished  in  the  flames  which  consumed  their 
dwelling.  I  had  an  uncle,  and  the  worthy  man 
sent  me  to  school  until  I  was  thirteen  years  old; 
then  he  died.  I  became  a  servant  at  the  great 
farm  behind  the  Crossberg.  When  I  married 
j'our  good  mother,  we  had  nothing  but  one  goat 
and  a  few  florins  we  had  saved  from  our  wages. 
We  have  worked  and  slaved,  and  been  thrifty  and 
saving.  God  always  blesses  honest  labor.  !N"ow 
we  have  a  horse,  four  cows,  land  enough  for  us  to 
cultivate,  and,  besides,  a  little  bit  of  money  laid 
np  for  a  rainy  day.  One  day  a  humble  cross  will 
stand  over  my  grave  in  the  churchyard  —  that  is 
in  the  course  of  nature :  but,  Luke,  you  will  then 
remember — won't  you? — that  all  that  I  have  saved 
and  scraped  together  for  you, — that  your  little 
inheritance  is  the  sweat  of  your  father's  toil ;  that* 
he,  that  your  mother,  have  sufi'ered  want  and  have 
worn  themselves  to  death  that  they  might  not 
leave  you  on  the  world?  You  will  keep  it  to- 
gether, you  will  increase  it  by  your  own  labor,  you 
will  treasure  it  as  a  memorial  of  our  love,  won't 
you?" 

The  deep  and  unusually  solemn  tone  of  the  old 
man's  words  had  affected  the  youth  so  much  that 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  15 

the  tears  glistened  in  his  eyes.  With  sorrow,  yet 
with  sweetness  in  his  voice,  he  soLbed — 

"  Oh,  father  dear,  what  are  you  talking  about  ? 
you  are  deceiving  yourself.  I  drank  only  one 
(jlass  of  Flemish  beer  in  the  town  at  Master  An- 
toon's  house;  one  glass  only,  and  no  more." 

Pressing  his  hand,  the  old  man  resumed : 

"Oh,  it  is  not  about  you,  Luke,  that  I  am 
speaking;  you  are  honest  and  hard-working.  I 
thank  God  that,  in  reward  of  all  my  toils,  he  has 
enabled  you  to  be  good  and  virtuous.  Whenever 
you  shall  stoop  under  the  weight  of  years,  old  and 
worn  out,  then  will  you  feel,  my  son,  what  a  com- 
fort it  is  to  know  that  the  fruit  of  your  labors  will 
not  be  squandered  after  you  are  dead  !" 

"But,  father,  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  the 
son;  "there  is  something  still  upon  your  heart. 
Why  don't  you  explain  your  meaning  to  me  ?" 

"It  would  sadden  you  too  much,  Luke." 

"  Sadden  me  !  what  can  it  be,  then?" 

"  Come,  you  shall  hear  all  about  it  at  once.  Do 
you  know  what  our  landlord's  lawyer  told  me  in 
the  town  ?  Farmer  Staers  is  to  be  turned  out  of 
his  farm  by  the  bailiifs  to-morrow,  or  the  day  after 
to-morrow !" 

" Good  heavens !  and  Clara?"  cried  the  young 
man.  in  a  tone  of  grief. 

"Yes,  Clara,  poor  Clara!"  answered  the  old 
man.  "  She  has  not  deserved  this  miserable  lot ; 
but  she  must  follow  her  father  wherever  he  goes." 

"Farmer  Staers  turned  out  of  his  farm!"   re- 


16         THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

peated  Luke,  with  a  shudder;  *'but  it  is  impos- 
eible,  father;  what  reasons  can  there  be  for  it?" 

"It  is  because  he  has  not  paid  his  last  year's 
rent;  we  are  now  in  October?" 

"But  he  has  still  a  good  piece  of  land,  all  his 
own?" 

"  That  was  mortgaged  two  years  ago,  and  so 
came  to  nothing,"  answered  the  old  man. 

"Buthe  was'leftrieh?" 

"iTot  rich;  tolerably  well  off:  and  if  he  had 
taken  care  of  things,  he  might  perhaps  have  be- 
come rich,  for  he  has  lived  through  many  very 
good  years  for  farmers." 

"I  am  quite  bewildered.  Where  can  the  inherit- 
ance of  his  father  have  gone?  one  man  could 
never  waste  so  much  as  that  in  drink !" 

"Do  you  think  so,  Luke?  The  throat  of  a 
drunkard  is  a  cask  without  a  bottom,  and  it  does 
not  take  fifteen  years  to  pour  through  it  much 
more  than  Farmer  Staers  ever  possessed.  I  will 
tell  you  the  whole  affair,  how  things  have  gone 
with  him ;  it  will  shorten  the  road,  and  at  the 
same  time  it  may  be  a  useful  lesson  to  you,  my 
son." 

Luke,  agitated  by  very  different  feelings,  wanted 
to  make  some  further  observations  andinquines; 
but  his  father  beckoned  him  to  be  silent,  and  con- 
tinued : 

"  Listen,  and  don't  interrupt  me.  The  parents 
of  Jan  Staers  were  very  comfortably  off;  they 
farmed  well,  and  were  not  afraid  of  hard  work; 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE    VILLAGE.  17 

but  tliey  lived  too  high,  and  gave  themselves  more 
airs  than  are  becoming  in  country-people.  Their 
only  son,  they  said,  should  never  run  behind  the 
plough ;  he  should  live  in  the  town  and  be  Ilyii- 
herr  Staers,  So  thej^  sent  him  to  a  school  where 
lawyers  and  doctors  are  made ;  but  at  the  end  of 
two  years  Jan  got  tired  of  learning,  and  wished 
to  be  a  farmer;  thinking,  I  suppose,  that  it  was 
much  more  comfortable  to  be  master  of  a  largo 
farm  than  to  have  to  seek  an  uncertain  livelihood 
in  the  wide  world.  So  far,  it  might  have  been 
worse ;  but  instead  of  accustoming  their  son  to 
work,  his  parents  let  him  do  just  what  he  liked, 
and  gave  him  plenty  of  money  in  his  pocket. 
*  Opportunity  makes  the  thief,'  says  the  proverb; 
and  'Idleness  is  the  fountain-head  of  all  vice,* 
says  our  old  pastor.  Jan  did  not  know  what  to 
do  with  himself  the  whole  day  long.  He  went  to 
the  inn,  at  first  to  amuse  himself,  then  from  habit; 
he  drank  first  one  dram,  then  two,  then  several. 
The  innkeeper  treated  him  with  great  attention, 
and  flattered  his  pride ;  the  toadeaters,  who,  un- 
happily, are  everywhere  to  be  found  in  our  villages, 
followed  him  w^herever  he  went,  and  praised  every 
thing  he  did  or  said,  to  get  a  drink  at  his  expense. 
In  short,  Jan  Staers  had  become  a  drunkard  be- 
fore either  he  or  his  parents  were  aware  of  it. 
About  this  time  he  struck  up  an  acquaintance 
with  the  daughter  of  the  landlord  of  the  Blind 
Horse,  a  small  inn  which  stood  at  that  time  be- 
hind there  on  the  bill.     He  was  married  the  same 

B  2* 


18  THE   CURSE   OF   THE  VILLAGE. 

clay  that  I  was,  and  that  is  the  only  time  I  ever 
felt  vexed  at  another's  good  fortune.  The  bride 
of  Staers  was  clothed  in  silk  and  velvet ;  he  had 
got  a  fine  new  cloak  made  in  the  town,  and  his 
hat  quite  shone  against  the  light.  They  looked 
like  the  lords  of  the  village.  And  there  stood  I 
by  them,  with  the  same  clothes  I  have  on  now: 
and  my  poor  Betsy,  your  mother,  so  humble,  with 
her  cotton  jacket  and  striped  frock,  that  we  looked 
just  like  the  servant  and  the  maid  of  Farmer  Staers. 
Then,  before  the  altar,  I  vowed  to  God  that  I 
would  slave  and  work  until  my  good  Betsy  too 
should  go  to  church  in  better  clothes.  And  I 
have  kept  my  vow.  But  I  am  forgetting  the 
adventures  of  Jan  Staei's.  You  see,  Luke,  when 
once  a  man  becomes  the  slave  of  drink,  he  has 
made  over  his  soul  to  the  devil.  Very  few  ever 
get  out  of  his  clutches  again. 

"For  a  little  while  after  his  marriage,  Jan  be- 
haved tolerably  well,  and  worked  in  his  fields  by 
fits  and  starts.  Ever^^body  thought,  and  I  thought 
too,  that  all  his  folly  and  wildness  had  vanished 
with  his  youth  ;  but  by  degrees  he  was  to  be  seen 
again  in  the  inn,  and  though  he  did  not  drink  as 
freely  as  he  used  to  do,  his  cheeks  were  now  and 
then  flushed,  and  his  eyes  wandering  and  blood- 
shot. His  father  and  mother  died  in  the  same, 
year,  very  near  together.  Jan  became  tenant  of 
the  stone  farm-house,  and  because  he  found  his 
father's  cofiers  well  lined,  he  thought  himself 
above  toil  and  carefulness.    From  that  time  he 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  19 

took  to  drinking  more  freely,  and  neglected  his 
work  more  and  more.  His  poor  wife — ^wliether 
he  treated  her  ill  I  don't  know^,  but  somehow  she 
pined  away  visibly,  and  every  one  could  guess  that 
it  was  not  from  happiness.  Jan  still  went  to  church 
now  and  then;  and  one  Sunday  the  curd  said 
something  in  his  sermon  —  a  sort  of  parable  — 
about  a  clay  cottage  which  had  devoured  up  a 
farm-house  of  stone.  The  cottage,  said  he,  was 
inhabited  by  an  industrious  man ;  while  the  occu- 
pant of  the  stone  house  was,  on  the  contrary,  a 
drunkard.  And  because  our  house,  which  was  at 
that  time  built  of  clay,  stood  not  far  from  his  farm, 
Jan  Staen  took  it  into  his  head  that  the  pastor 
had  him  and  me  in  his  mind's  eye.  This  made 
him  so  angry  wdth  me,  that  from  that  time  he  has 
looked  on  me  with  an  evil  eye.  Among  his  boon 
companions  he  called  me  all  manner  of  names 
— scrape-farthing,  hair-splitter,  pin-collector,  and 
such  like — but  I  only  laughed  at  his  silly  jests; 
and  I  think,  indeed,  that  it  is  a  bad  thing  to  have 
the  good  word  of  wicked  people. 

"But  I  am  always  running  away  from  my  story. 
And  so,  Luke,  I  need  not  take  long  in  telling  you 
what  your  own  eyes  have  seen,  in  part  at  least. 
When  Jan  Staers  saw  that  his  aifairs  were  going 
down  hill  a  little  too  fast,  he  tried  to  push  them 
up  again  by  a  few  vigorous  strokes.  He  tried  to 
do  something  as  a  dealer  in  grain ;  but  as  he  had 
the  glass  in  his  hand  a  great  deal  oftener  than  the 
pen,  that  all  went  wrong,  and  in  a  very  little  while 


20  THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE. 

he  had  made  a  clean  sweep  of  liis  fortune.  In 
about  six  years  his  wife  died,  and  since  then  Jau 
Staers  has  been  running  headlong  to  ruin.  Man- 
servant and  maid  must  troop  from  the  farm-house 
one  after  another;  the  fields  were  left  always 
fallow,  or  just  one  half-starved  lad  hired  to  set  in 
the  potatoes ;  his  cows  were  sold  one  after  another, 
so  that  he  has  only  one  left.  His  last  horse  has 
gone  the  same  way.  Fancy — only  one  wretched 
cow  in  a  farmyard  like  that!  You  see,  Luke,  it 
vexes  me  as  if  it  were  my  own  property  that  w^as 
wasted  in  this  way.  We,  who  are  toiling  and  dig- 
ging our  dry  sandy  patch  of  land  from  morning  to 
night  to  wring  a  moderate  harvest  out  of  it,  w^e 
must  look  on  and  see  such  rich  heavy  fields  as 
these  devoured  by  weeds,  and  of  no  use  to  any- 
body !  Ah,  it  is  a  shame,  I  say — a  shame  in  the 
sight  of  God  and  man.  Well,  now,  Jan  Staers  has 
not  been  able  to  make  up  his  last  year's  rent;  our 
landlord,  who  has  borne  with  him  a  long  time  out 
of  respect  for  the  memory  of  his  excellent  father, — 
our  landlord,  I  say,  has  lost  all  patience  with  him. 
He  is  going  to  make  very  short  work  with  Jan 
Staers ;  for  to-morrow  morning  the  bailifis  w^ill  put 
an  execution  into  the  farm,  and  sell  every  thing  he 
has,  and  turn  the  lazy  scoundrel  into  the  street. 
So  it  goes  with  all  drunkards,  my  son ;  the  begin- 
ning is  a  little  dram,  but  the  end  is  the  beggar's 
wallet,  or  theft,  or— or  yet  worse  still." 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  21 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  youth  had  listened  to  this  long  stoiy  with 
much  sorrow  and  many  distractions ;  and,  now  the 
old  man  had  ceased  speaking,  he  asked — 

"Have  you  finished,  father?" 

"Yes,  Luke,  I  have  finished.  !N"ow  you  will 
understand  what  put  me  out  of  humor." 

"  But,  father,  does  Farmer  Staers  know  the  mis- 
fortune that  threatens  him?" 

"To  be  sure  he  does;  there  has  been  a  writ  out 
against  him,  and  he  was  allowed  till  yesterday  to 
get  the  money  together.  Yesterday  and  the  day 
before  he  was  reeling  about  from  one  public-house 
to  another,  and  turning  the  whole  village  upside 
down.  That  is  not  the  way  to  find  money  to  pay 
one's  rent." 

Both  were  now  silent  for  some  time,  and  walked 
on,  lost  in  thought.  A  little  in  advance,  on  the 
top  of  a  hill  near  the  road,  there  was  a  stone  cross, 
just  such  as  are  set  up  in  places  where  some  foul 
deed  has  been  perpetrated.  The  father  looked  at 
it,  and  said,  in  a  kind  of  reverie,  as  if  talking  to 
himself — 

"  On  that  cross  it  says  that  one  Peter  Darinckx 


22  THE   CURSE   OF   THE  VILLAGE. 

was  barbarously  killed  just  here.  The  barLarous 
murderer  was — gin  !  That  happened  before  this 
road  was  cut  out  of  the  hill-side.  Down  there, 
there  were  great  heaps  of  stones;  in  the  inn 
yonder  behind  the  hill,  Darinckx  had  been  drink- 
ing till  he  lost  his  senses,  and  in  the  darkness  he 
lost  his  footing  and  fell  down  this  precipice,  with 
his  forehead  on  the  stones.  God  is  merciful ;  but 
for  all  that,  I  fear  for  his  poor  soul." 

The  lad  was  walking  on  by  his  father's  side, 
with  his  head  bent  down  on  his  breast,  and  with- 
out seeming  to  be  listening  to  what  he  said.  The 
old  man  saw  that  his  heart  was  filled  with  bitter 
sorrow,  and  looked  at  him  with  deep  and  tender 
compassion.  Suddenly  raising  his  head,  the  young 
peasant  exclaimed,  with  suppressed  energy, — 

"But  Clara,  the  poor  helpless  Clara, — what  will 
become  of  her?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  her,  too,  my  son  ;  but  I  see 
nothing  before  the  poor  lass  except  misfortune  and 
sorrow." 

"l^othingbut  misfortune  and  sorrow !"  repeated 
Luke,  in  a  dejected  tone.  "Oh,  father,  may  I  tell 
you  what  is  in  my  heart  ?  But  you  would  bo  so 
angry  that  I  dare  not." 

"I  can  well  guess  what  it  is;  and  it  gives  me 
pain  enough  on  your  account,  my  poor  Luke ;  but 
God  has  so  decreed  it,  and  you  must  bow  meekly 
beneath  his  wiU." 

"You  can  guess  it?"  stammered  the  you'h.  his 
face  suffused  with  a  blush  of  modest  shame      ""N"?- 


THE   CURSE    OE   THE   VILLAGE.  23 

body  on  earth  knows  it,  nobody  but — mother  only, 
and  she  did  not  scold  me,  but  the  contrary." 

A  few  wrinkles  began  to  throw  their  gloom  over 
the  old  man's  forehead. 

"E'o,  father,  don't  vex  yourself,"  said  the  youth, 
imploringly.  "It  is  a  feeling  that  has  grownup 
in  me  so  gradually,  without  my  knowledge,  with- 
out my  will.  First  of  all,  it  was  only  pity  and 
sympathy;  I  could  not  bear  to  see  that  luckless 
lamb,  so  tender  and  so  beautiful,  working  alone  in 
the  farmyard,  hoeing  and  manuring  the  ground, 
and  from  morning  to  night  toiling  ajid  slaving  so 
hard  that  a  man  would  break  down  under  it.  So, 
when  her  father  was  away,  and  our  own  work  was 
slack,  I  helped  her  a  little  now  and  then,  and  did 
some  of  the  hardest  of  her  work  for  her.  But  out 
of  her  gratitude  and  my  pity,  another  feeling 
sprang  up  in  both  of  us.  I  have  kept  it  a  secret 
from  everybody,  except  mother.  But  the  thought 
that  they  are  going  to  drive  Clara  out  of  the  farm* 
house  and  turn  her  into  the  street,  and  that  in  all 
probability  she  will  have  to  beg  her  bread,  oh,  this 
thought  half  kills  me — it  makes  me  beside  myself 
— it  makes  me  bold  enough  to  say  to  you  now, 
father,  what  otherwise  would  never  have  crossed 
my  lips." 

And  in  a  low  voice,  and  with  his  head  hung 
down,  he  murmured,  or  rather  allowed  to  escape, 
as  it  were,  on  the  breath  of  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  tho 
words — 

"Father,  Hove  Clara!" 


24  THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

After  a  little  pause,  the 'old  man  asked,  as  if  Ins 
thoughts  were  wandering — 

"Have  you  ever  told  her  this,  Luke?" 

"Oh,  no,  never!"  said  the  youth. 

"But  how  do  you  know,  then,  whether  she  has 
any  inclination  toward  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know  it  at  all,  father,"  answered  Luke 
with  his  eyes  lixed  on  the  ground,  and  a  very  visi 
ble  tremor;  "but  her  eyes,  her  voice,  something 
that  I  can't  explain,  something  mysterious,  as  if 
our  two  souls  were  but  one  soul — " 

"Don't  worry  yourself  about  it,  Luke,"  said  th*. 
old  man,  with  a  tender  voice;  "I  knew  all  thi? 
long  ago ;  and  if  I  had  been  displeased  about  it, ) 
should  have  stopped  it  all  at  first.  The  weed,  1/ 
weed  it  is,  must  be  rooted  out  betimes,  or  else  i'. 
is  not  easy  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  it." 

"Ah,  thank  you,  thank  you,  father,  for  youi 
goodness  !"  cried  the  young  man.  "Xow  you  cac 
well  understand  my  grief,  my  anguish.  Clara 
turned  out  of  doors — Clara  driven  to  beg,  like  a 
mere  vagrant!  But  it  cannot  be,. father;  and  it 
shall  not  be.  It  will  make  me  ill ; — ^I  shall  pine 
away,  and  most  likely  die  outright!" 

"  ISTo,  no,  Luke,  not  quite  so  bad  as  that ;  but 
still,  I  feel  your  sorrow  very  deeply.  Clara  is  a 
good  and  industrious  child,  and  if  it  were  pos- 
sible to  do  any  thing  for  her,  I, — the  hair-splitter, 
the  screw,  the  lick-penny, — I  would  not  let  her 
beg  or  starve ;  she  should  have  a  few  crowns  out 
of  your  mother's  hoard ;  but  if  I  were  to  give  her 


THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  25 

money,  her  father  would  get  hold  of  it  and  be  oil' 
with  it  to  the  public-house." 

*'An  alms  to  her!"  sobbed  the  youth,  in  a  tone 
of  despair. 

"My  toil,  and  the  toil  of  your  mother,  shall 
never  go  to  pay  for  gin — never !" 

"There  is  another  plan,  father." 

"Another  plan,  Luke?  let  us  hear  it,  then." 

The  young  man  was  silent,  and  kept  his  eyes 
fixed  bashfully  on  the  ground,  and  it  seemed  to 
his  father  that  his  legs  trembled  as  he  walked, 
and  that  he  was  suffering  from  some  unwonted 
perturbation. 

"Is  the  plan,  then,  so  very  dreadful,  my 
son,"  asked  he,  "that  you  are  afraid  to  tell  it 
tome?" 

"Well,  then,  it  must  come  out!"  exclaimed  the 
young  farmer,  as  though  he  had  taken  a  desperate 
resolution.  He  then  relapsed  a  wdiile  into  silence, 
and  at  length  said,  in  a  voice  very  low  and  tremu- 
lous with  emotion — 

"Oh,  do  not  be  angry  with  me,  father;  I  will 
submit  myself  entirely  to  your  wnll,  even  if  ni}^ 
obedience  to  you  carries  me  to  the  churchyard.  I 
had  a  sort  of  dream — I  dreamed — in  the  night — ■ 
it  was  a  month  ago  last  night — I  had  dug  a  few 
roods  of  land  for  Clara  the  evening  before,  and 
my  work  had  quite  tired  me  out — " 

"  Come,  come,  don't  go  such  a  way  round  about. 
What  was  it  you  dreamed  ?" 

"  It  was  beautiful  enough !     Methought  I  saw 


3 


26  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

you,  father,  in  tlie  chimney-corner,  with  your  pipe 
in  your  mouth,  sitting  quite  at  your  ease,  laugliing 
and  making  merry,  just  like  a  rich  man  ;  and  mo- 
ther was  singing  at  her  wheel,  'Where  can  one 
better  be  ^'  It  was  so  beautiful  and  so  much  like 
heaven,  that  I  should  like  to  dream  on  so  till — for- 
ever ;  but  you,  father,  must  be  there,  and  mother 
too,  and — and — and  Clara,  too." 

"Ho,  ho!  Clara  was  there,  was  she?"  said  the 
old  man,  with  a  smile.  "I  had  a  notion  she 
would  be." 

His  countenance  assumed  a  more  serious  ex- 
pression, and  he  remarked — 

"But,  Luke,  my  boy,  take  care  what  you  say. 
You  would  like  to  dream  like  that  forever ;  would 
you  really  give  up  heaven  for  a  dream  ?" 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,  father ;  it  is  only  a  way  of 
speaking ;  I  don't  mean  that ;  I  mean  to  say  only 
that  my  dream  was  so  very  lovely — " 

"]^ow,  then,  Luke,"  said  the  old  man,  impa- 
tiently, "  are  you  going  on  with  your  dream  ?  or, 
rather,  let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

"Ko,  no,  father,  keep  in  a  good  temper,"  said 
the  youth,  in  a  beseeching  tone;  "I  will  take 
courage  and  out  with  all ;  you  may  be  angr^^  with 
me,  but  I  cannot  help  it  now.  Listen  to  what  I 
saw  in  my  dream ; — We  had  eight  cows  and  two 
horses,  ploughed  land  and  meadow-land  in  abun- 
dance. Methought  I  was  as  strong  as  a  giant; 
my  hands  had  grown  broad  and  thick ;  I  felt  in 
myself  a  continually  increasing    energy  and    a 


THE  CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  •      27 

wonderful  courage.  "W"e  worked — I  moan,  I 
worked — from  break  of  day  to  the  late  evening. 
My  labor  made  me  so  happy,  that  I  could  have 
nailed  the  suu  fast  in  the  sky,  to  have  more  hours 
to  work  in.  Every  thing  went  well  with  ns; 
God's  blessing  was  on  our  dwelling ;  our  orchards 
and  our  fields  all  looked  bright  w^ith  beauty  and 
with  abundance.  You  must  not  work  any  more, 
father ; — yes,  you  have  already  slaved  too  much  in 
your  life :  is  it  not  so  ?  But,  however  increased 
our  property  was,  yet  the  work  was  all  too  little 
for  us — for  me,  I  mean.  You,  father,  you  sat  in 
the  chimney  smoking  your  pipe,  or  you  just  strolled 
out  into  the  fields  to  give  me  your  advice.  That 
is  just  as  it  should  be,  for  you  know  every  thing 
about  farming  from  your  long  experience ;  but 
you  must  not  work  any  more.  And  mother  was 
waited  on,  and  tended,  and  cared  for,  by  Clara,  out 
of  pure  love  and  affection — oh,  we  were  all  the 
while  so  happy  and  blithe, — and  Clara,  too.  And 
you,  father,  and  my  good  mother,  you  loved  Clara 
as  if  she  had  been  your  own  child ;  for  she  it  was 
who,  by  her  sweet  aficction,  made  our  home  a 
heaven  of  peace  and  of  love !" 

The  youth  here  paused,  and  watched  for  his 
father's  answer,  with  downcast  look. 

After  a  while,  the  old  man  asked  drily — 

"  So,  in  your  dream,  Clara  lived  with  us ;  as  a 
servant,  I  suppose?" 

Trembling  in  every  limb,  and  with  a  deep  sigh, 
Luke  whispered — 


28  THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

"No,  father,  she  was  my  wife !" 

The  old  man  gave  his  son  a  gentle  slap  on  the 
face,  and  said,  good-humoredly — 

*'  Well,  that  beats  all !  why,  you  ought  to  be  a 
lawyer,  Luke.  There  is  a  horrible  word  to  bring 
out ! — jouv  wife,  indeed  !  This  is  a  serious  mat- 
ter, my  lad ;  let  us  talk  it  over  soberly ;  let  us  have 
it  out  plainly  and  frankly,  like  two  friends.  I  will 
tell  you  something  that  will  put  you  quite  at  your 
ease.  For  more  than  five  years  your  good  mother 
and  I  have  had  our  dreams  too,  and  we  had  a 
notion  that  Clara  would  make  you  a  very  good 
wife.  It  is  quite  as  long  as  that,  I  fancy,  Luke, 
since  you  have  taken  to  wander  round  about  the 
stone  house  whenever  you  found  the  v^ay  clear  ? 
AYould  you  believe,  Luke,  that  our  slaving  and 
scraping  together  was  not  quite  unconnected  with 
our  wish  to  see  you  married  to  Clara?  Her  father 
was,  or  seemed  to  be,  a  well-to-do  tenant  farmer, 
and  so  he  carried  his  head  uncommonly  high.  He 
would  never  have  consented  to  his  daughter's 
marriage  with  the  son  of  a  poor  cattle-driver,  such 
as  I  was  at  that  time." 

'*  But  now,  father,  now  he  v>dll  give  his  consent 
joyfully!" 

"1  haven't  a  doubt  of  that!  But  that  does  not 
make  all  square.  Then  he  had  plenty,  now  he 
has  little—" 

Luke  raised  his  hand  with  a  deprecating  gesture 
toward  his  father,  as  though  he  would  check  the 
chilling  decision  that  was  coming. 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  29 

"That  is  to  saj,  now  he  has  nothing  left,"  con- 
cluded the  old  man. 

"Oh,  father!"  exclaimed  the  youth,  "you  your- 
self have  said  that  you  had  nothing  when  you 
mariied  my  mother,  and  you  have  assured  me  that 
you  have  always  been  quite  contented  with  your 
lot.  Oh,  do  not  render  me  miserable  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  money." 

"Money!"  repeated  the  old  man;  "it  is  not  tlio 
money  that  makes  the  difficulty.  They  call  me 
scrape-farthing  —  they  think  I  am  a  miser;  but 
money  is  worth  nothing  to  me,  except  so  far  as 
it  is  the  fruit  of  my  own  labor.  If  anybody 
w^ere  to  ofter  me  a  treasure,  I  should  not  care  to 
take  it,  unless  I  thought  that  you,  Luke,  might 
perhaps  be  the  better  for  it.  For  myself,  I 
should  not  care  for  money  that  I  did  not  earn; 
I  should  not  be  able  to  eat  or  drink  more  than 
before;  and  if  I  were  to  give  up  work,  idleness 
would  soon  make  me  ill,  and  I  should  pine 
away." 

"  But,  father,  you  are  an  extraordinary  person ! 
why  won't  you  give  your  consent?"  cried  the 
youth,  in  an  agony  of  impatience;  "or  do  you 
think  that  I  shall  not  follow  your  example?  Be 
very  sure  that  my  horny  hands  will  not  have  time 
to  grow  soft,  any  more  than  3'ours  have.  Have 
you  ever  heard  me  say  of  any  work.  It  is  difficult; 
or,  It  is  too  much?" 

"  No,  Luke ;  it  is  right  good  blood  that  flows 
in  your  veins,  I  know  that.      Bat  3'ou  interrupt 


30  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

me,  and  1  don't  like  it;  it  leads  us  away  from 
the  matter  in  hand.  There  is  something,  my  son, 
which  you  have  not  taken  into  your  calculation. 
When  farmer  Staers  w^as  well  off,  if  Clara  had 
])ecome  your  wife  she  might  have  lived  with  us, 
or  you  could  have  hired  a  little  cottage;  but  now 
her  father  has  no  home  over  his  head,  lie 
would,  of  course,  live  with  you,  drink  the  pro- 
duce of  your  toil,  and  perhaps  help  to  bring  you 
to  ruin." 

The  young  man  stood  still  a  moment;  a  f^ud- 
den  thrill  of  anguish  convulsed  his  heart,  and,  at 
length,  a  cry  of  bitter  disappointment  relieved  his 
laboring  breast.     The  father  continued : 

"It  is  a  solemn  duty — I  think  it  even  stands 
written  in  the  Law — that  children  should  support 
their  parents  whenever  they  are  no  longer  able  to 
earn  their  own  bread.  To  be  a  drunkard  is  a 
much  worse  thing  than  to  be  a  cripple  or  lame; 
for  a  drunkard  not  only  earns  nothing,  but  he 
w^astes  and  consumes  every  thing  he  can  lay  hands 
on.  Think  for  a  moment,  Luke;  you  will  toil 
like  a  slave;  he  will  roam  about,  and  be  every- 
where; he  will  defile  your  house  with  unseemly 
words,  with  curses,  and  blasphemy;  perhaps  he 
will  ill-use  your  poor  wife  if  she  will  not  give 
him  money  enough  to  satisfy  his  contemptible 
craving.  And  then,  God  may  grant  you  children; 
they  will  have  this  example  before  their  eyes  from 
their  cradle ;  they  will  hear  cursing  and  swearing ; 
they  must  say  *  grandfather'  to  a  wretch  who  will 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.         31 

hear  nothing  of  cliurcli  or  clergyman;  and  who, 
with  his  eyes  wide  open,  gives  his  soul  to  the 
devil!  No,  my  son,  that  can  never  be:  you  see, 
now,  it  never  can  be,  and  you  will  bow  in  hu- 
mility beneath  the  cross  which  God  gives  you  to 
bear.  Is  it  not  so,  Luke?  You  will  be  good 
find  sensible,  and  not  sacrifice  your  life  and  your 
Nvell-being  to  a  passion  which,  after  a  brief  mo- 
ment of  anguish,  will  die  away  of  itself?" 

The  young  man  spoke  not  a  word ;  only  a  dry, 
hoarse  sound  was  heard  in  his  throat,  and  he  in- 
sensibly quickened  his  pace,  as  though  urged  on 
by  keen  suiFering,  or  distracted  by  grief.  He 
pressed  his  arms  in  silence  close  to  his  body,  and 
his  every  muscle  quivered  with  his  agony. 

His  father  fixed  his  eyes  on  him  with  pro- 
found sympathy  and  compassion;  after  a  while  ho 
said,  in  a  sorrowful  tone — 

"  Do  not  imagine,  Luke,  that  I  inflict  this  sor- 
row on  you  without  keen  pain.  I  dare  not  ne- 
glect my  duty  as  a  father.  Oh,  be  sure,  I  would 
give  the  half  of  ni}^  little  possessions  to  be  able  to 
gratify  your  wish;  it  is  my  own  wish,  too,  and  the 
wish  of  your  mother;  but  it  must  not  be  I" 


82  THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 


CHAPTER  in. 

These  last  words  of  his  father  smote  on  iho 
heart  of  the  youth  as  an  irrevocable  decree  of  fate ; 
a  faint,  shrill  cry  burst  from  his  lips;  he  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  bosom,  and  his  fingers  moved  con- 
vulsively, as  though,  in  the  extremity  of  his  de- 
spair, they  were  tearing  his  breast ;  but  he  spoke 
not  a  word. 

The  old  man,  too,  walked  on  rapidly,  without 
uttering  a  word.  After  a  while  he  turned  his  face 
toward  his  son,  and  pressed  his  hand  on  his  fore- 
head. He  was  buried  in  deep  meditation ;  mak- 
ing a  violent  effort  to  discover  something  to  con- 
sole his  poor  son. 

And  now  they  were  drawing  near  their  home — 
at  the  end  of  an  avenue  of  lofty  pines  they  could 
already  see  the  houses  at  the  entrance  of  their  vil- 
lage. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  raised  his  head,  a  cry  of 
joy  escaped  him,  and  he  said:  "Ah!  Luke,  I  have 
found  it!" 

The  youth  stood  still  as  a  statue;  his  eyes, 
suffused  with  tears,  glistened  with  eager  ex- 
pectation ;  trembling,  and  with  both  hands 
stretched    out    toward    his    father,    he    looked 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  33 

as   if   lie  would   see  the  words    issue   from   his 
mouth. 

"  IN'o,  not  so  fast,  Luke,"  said  the  old  man, 
moderating  his  own  joy.  "It  is  a  serious  pro- 
ject, and  I  must  sleep  over  it  first." 

"  For  God's  sake,  father,  tell  me,  tell  me,  what 
have  you  found?"  implored  the  distracted  youth. 

The  old  man  took  his  son's  hand,  and  said,  Avith 
a  restrained  gladness  of  tone — 

"  Luke,  suppose  I  were  to  go  to  Jan  Staers,  and 
propose  to  him  to  take  his  lease,  and  to  let  him 
remain  still  at  the  stone  house  with  your  mother 
and  me  ?  I  would  show  you,  old  as  I  am,  whether 
the  land  would  not,  with  some  toil  and  sweat, 
amply  pay  the  yearly  rent.  The  example  of  Jan 
Staers  cannot  hurt  me ;  continual  work  has  given 
me  a  tolerably  thick  skin  on  my  body.  Then  you 
and  Clara  might  go  and  live  in  our  cottage ;  we 
should  be  able  to.  see  one  another  every  day,  and 
help  each  other — and  you  and  your  wife,  and  your 
children,  when  the}^  come,  you  at  least  might  live 
in  peace.  If  the  night  does  not  bring  any  change 
of  plan,  I  shall  go  over  in  the  morning  and  break 
the  matter  to  Jan  Staers." 

Luke  let  his  basket  drop  on  the  ground,  threw 
his  arms  round  his  father's  neck,  and,  overpowered 
by  emotion,  burst  into  tears  on  the  old  man's 
breast,  while  he  murmured,  with  a  voice  choked 
and  interrupted  by  sobs — 

''  Father,  you  are  too  good  !  May  God  recom- 
pense you  in  his  heaven — and  I  will  never  forget 


34  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

it  as  long  as  I  live — ^I  shall  love  you  and  honor 
you — Oh,  I  don't  know  where  I  am — my  brain  is 
reeling — Claia,  the  sweet  Clara,  she  shall — " 

'•Look,  yonder  comes  Clara  !"  said  his  father. 

Along  a  side-path  between  the  pine-trees,  and 
at  some  little  distance,  the  young  maiden  was 
coming  toward  them;  she  was  walking  steadily 
on,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  slowly,  and 
with  an  air  of  distraction. 

At  the  first  word  of  his  father,  the  youth  had 
released  himself  from  his  embrace,  and  was  about 
to  run  toward  the  damsel,  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy, 
when  the  old  man  detained  him,  and,  with  solemn 
voice,  charged  him — 

"Luke,  not  a  word  of  this  plan  to  Clara,  do  you 
hear  ?  I  must  first  sleep  over  it,  and  know  what 
her  father  thinks  about  it." 

The  young  man  made  a  sign  with  his  head  that 
he  would  keep  silence  about  the  good  news,  and 
then  sprang  forward  to  Clara,  who  had  by  this 
time  come  several  steps  nearer  to  them.  Luke 
was  so  overjoyed  that  he  threw  his  cap  into  the 
air,  and  sang  and  danced  like  a  child,  and  filled 
the  wood  with  cries  of  joy.  But  that  he  had  any 
good  news  to  tell,  and  had  good  reason  to  be  glad 
— of  this  he  said  not  a  word. 

He  seized  the  maiden  by  the  hand,  and  drew 
her  toward  the  spot  from  which  his  father  was 
watching  him  with  a  look  of  reproach. 

"  Come,  Clara,  come !"  exclaimed  the  young 
man,  quite  wild  with  joy.     "  Oh,  if  I  could  tell 


THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE.  85 

you  al  I ! — Father  won't  let  me — to-morrow  !  to- 
morrow ! — Come,  Clara ;  laugh,  sing,  be  merry ; — 
but  I  must  not  speak  of  it — I  am  ready  to  burst, 
but  I  must  not  speak.  I  would  give  five  francs — 
that  is,  if  I  had  them — if  you  could  guess  it  your- 
self.— It  sticks  like  a  great  ball  in  my  throat — • 
Oh,  it  is  so  lovely — so  lovely! — " 

The  old  man  had  meanwhile  advanced  several 
steps,  and  now  seized  his  son's  wrist  in  his  still 
powerful  grasp. 

"Luke,  Luke,"  said  he,  reproachfully,  "this  is 
not  manly  of  you  !" 

As  though  the  pressure  of  his  father's  hand,  and 
the  severe  tone  of  his  voice,  had  aroused  him  from 
a  dream,  the  youth  bowed  his  head  in  shame,  but 
soon  raised  it  again  boldly,  and  with  a  sweet  smile 
playing  on  his  face. 

"  It  was  time,  father,"  murmured  he  ;  "I  can't 
help  it;  but  it  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue." 

The  damsel  looked  at  them  both  with  a  quiet 
astonishment,  and  seemed  to  ask  what  had  hap- 
pened, or  what  it  was  that  they  were  so  anxious 
to  conceal  from  her.  Her  features  were  beautiful, 
and  her  figure  slender  and  graceful;  there  was 
something  of  earnestness  and  patient  endurance  in 
the  slow,  cautious  gaze  of  her  dark  eyes.  Although 
her  cheeks,  embrowned  by  exposure,  betokened  a 
degree  of  thinness,  continuous  toil  had  made  her 
limbs  firm  and  strong.  She  carried  her  head  erect, 
and  there  was  an  expression  about  her  fine  mouth 
which  might  have  been  construed  into  pride,  had 


36  THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

not  the  whole  village  known  that  it  was  impossible 
to  find  a  damsel  more  tender-hearted  and  humble 
than  she  was.  Constant  reflection  and  thought,  the 
bearing  her  melancholy  burden  withont  hope,  with- 
out alleviation,  had  graven  two  deUcate  Avrinkles 
around. her  lips.  Although  her  clothes  had  well- 
nigh  lost  their  original  color,  and  here  and  there 
a  patch  or  a  seam  showed  that  much  care  had 
been  expended  to  conceal  the  ravages  of  time, 
they  were  so  clean,  and  were  worn  with  so  becom- 
ing a  grace,  that,  at  the  first  glance,  she  seemed 
more  richly  dressed  than  other  peasant  girls. 

After  a  few  quiet  words  of  greeting  had  passed 
between  her  and  the  old  man,  the  latter  took  the 
basket  on  his  shoulder,  placed  himself  in  the 
middle  between  the  two  young  people,  and  so  all 
three  went  on  toward  the  village. 

Luke  began  to  talk  of  the  beautiful  weather,  of 
the  approaching  procession,  and  of  the  Kermes  on 
the  Crossberg,  and  of  all  kinds  of  bright  and  joy- 
ous things ;  but,  every  now  and  then,  he  mixed  with 
his  remarks  some  w^jrds  of  double  meaning,  which 
more  than  once  compelled  his  father  to  make  him 
a  sign  to  remember  the  prohibition  laid  on  him. 

Clara  seemed  out  of  sympathy  with  all  their 
demonstrations  of  joy,  and  she  walked  on  with  a 
downcast  and  melancholy  look. 

They  were  now  only  two  or  three  bowshots 
from  the  first  house  of  the  village,  when  Luke 
addressed  to  Clara  a  direct  question,  which  com- 
pelled her  to  turn  her  face  toward  him. 


THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  37 

"  Clara,  you  are  crying !  your  tears  are  flow- 
ing !"  exclaimed  he,  suddenly  leaving  his  father's 
Bide  and  planting  himself  directly  in  front  of  the 
maiden.  "  Oh,  comfort  yourself,  comfort  yourself 
— there  will  be  an  end  of  all  this;  we  will — oh, 
no — ^you  shall  be  so  very  happy — to-morrow  you 
shall—" 

But  a  glance  from  his  father  cut  short  his  revela- 
tions. 

"  Oh,  tell  me,  Clara,  tell  me,  why  you  aro 
weeping  so  bitterly  !"  asked  he,  in  anguish  ;  and, 
all  of  a  sudden  disenchanted,  he  raised  his  hand 
to  his  eyes,  and  brushed  away  from  each  a  pearly 
tear. 

"Oh,  dear  friend,"  sobbed  Clara,  "I  have  suf- 
fered so  much  !  my  heart  is  breaking  in  my  bosom 
Since  the  morning  I  have  been  wandering  in  the 
wood,  and  w^eeping  in  solitude  over  my  bitter  lot. 
I  dare  not  return  home ;  it  will  be  henceforward 
so  desert  and  lonely  to  me — " 

"  Good  heavens !  has  any  misfortune  happened  ?" 
groaned  Luke.     "  Your  father  ? — " 

"  My  father  is  gone  to  the  town,"  answered  the 
maiden. 

"But  you  distress  me,  Clara.  Tell  me,  then, 
why  your  tears  are  flowing." 

With  increased  melancholy,  the  damsel  replied : 

"You  know,  well.  Father  Torfs,  our  cow — the 
last  of  all — that  Luke  used  to  call  'white  mammy.' 
A.las!  I  have  fed  it  and  cared  for  it  ever  since  it 
vaa  SL  poor  little  calf — my  only  companion  in  the 

4 


38  THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE. 

-woi'ld,  my  last  possession  on  earth — to  whom  I 
nsecl  to  tell  every  thing  that  made  me  suiFer  and 
feel  sad.  She  had  as  much  sense  as  a  human 
being;  she  could  see  in  my  eyes  what  I  w^anted  to 
tell  her.  Whenever  I  was  crying,  and  my  tears 
would  fall  as  I  rested  my  head  on  her  neck,  the 
grateful  beast  would  lick  my  hands  to  console 
me.  Yes,  Luke,  you  might  w^ell  call  her  'white 
mammy,'  for  she  has  fed  us  a  long  time,  and  has 
been  my  only  resource.  But  for  her,  and  but — 
but  for  you,  Luke,  I  should  long  ere  this  have  been 
laid  to  rest  beneath  the  grass  in  the  churchyard. 
Oh,  I  did  not  know  that  a  human  being  could  ever 
feel  so  much  love  for  a  beast ;  but  if  I  had  a  sister, 
and  she  w^ere,  unhappily,  to  die,  it  seems  to  me  it 
w^ould  not  pierce  my  heart  more  deeply.  I  shall 
become  quite  ill  with  it.  Oh,  poor  creature,  poor 
creature,  my  good  beast !" 

"Is  the  cow  dead,  Clara?"  asked  the  old 
man. 

"Worse,  worse  than  dead!"  sobbed  the  poor 
maiden;    "father   sold  her  this   morning  to   our 

neighbor,  the  butcher,  Thomas ."     And  w^ith 

a  flood  of  tears  she  ended  with  the  words — "And 
I  saw  her  white  skin,  all  stained  with  blood,  hang- 
ing at  his  door.  Oh,  God !  it  is  enough  to  kill  me 
with  grief!" 

The  old  father,  overcome  by  the  tone  of  Clara's 
voice,  had  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands;  Luke 
wept  aloud;  all  three  stood  melted  into  tears  over 
the  death  of  a  cow !    Marvellous  sentiment  of  grati- 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  39 

tude,  which  retahis  so  deep  and  living  a  memory 
of  benefits,  even  when  conferred  on  us  by  a  beast 
of  the  field! 

The  weeping  of  the  aged  father  changed  very 
rapidly  into  anger;  he  stamped  his  foot  on  the 
ground  with  vexation,  and  murmured  between  his 
lips  biting  words,  of  which  enough  was  heard  to 
show  that  Clara's  father  was  their  object. 

"And  why  did  your  father  sell  the  cow?"  said 
he;  '^as  usual,  to — " 

"To  pay  his  arrears  of  rent,"  interposed  the 
dajiisel. 

"Ah,  he  is  gone  to  pay  his  rent!"  exclaimed. 
Luke,  with  joy. 

"And  do  not  blame  my  poor  father,"  said  Clara, 
in  a  tone  of  entreaty;  "you  cannot  know  all;  but 
he  is  so  unfortunate !  Oh,  rather  have  a  little 
S3'mpathy  with  him,  and  pray  God  to  look  merci- 
fully on  him!" 

The  old  man  felt  his  eyes  becoming  moist  again. 
The  last  words  of  the  maiden,  spoken  with  a  voice 
so  beseeching  and  so  full  of  love,  had  deeply  af- 
fected him;  and  he  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  and 
with  beaming  eyes,  as  though  he  w^ere  on  the  point 
of  saying  something  very  important  to  her. 

The  young  man  divined  what  was  working  in 
his  father's  mind,  and  with  his  hands  upraised  to 
him  he  seemed  to  implore  a  favorable  decision. 
The  old  father  seized  Clara's  hand  wdth  deep  emo- 
tion, and  while  he  led  her  hastily  toward  the  vil- 
hfy/     le  said — 


40  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

"Clara,  I  love  you  right  well;  you  are  a  noble 
child.  But  be  of  good  comfort:  the  God  above  us 
tries  and  proves  even  virtuous  men ;  but  at  length 
ho  rewards  steadfastness  in  goodness,  and  patient 
endurance  in  sufiering.  Come,  we  will  have  some 
coffee,  and  talk  with  mother  about  good  things. 
Be  of  good  courage,  my  child;  whatever  may 
happen,  look  you,  in  us  you  will  always  find 
friends  in  need." 

"Oh,   father,   tell  her  it  now!"   implored  the 
youth.     "Tell  it  to  her:  all  her  grief  will  be  sud 
denly  changed  into  gladness." 

"I  shall  tell  Clara  in  the  house  all  that  she  ought 
to  know,"  answered  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  severe 
rebuke.  "If  you  will  not  obey  me,  and  cannot 
keep  silence  to-day,  I  shall  cease  henceforward  to 
tell  you  of  my  projects  and  intentions." 

At  this  moment  they  turned  a  corner  in  the 
village  path,  and  stood  before  the  humble  dwelling 
of  old  Torfs. 

Clara  pointed  with  her  finger  in  the  distance 
toward  the  house  of  the  butcher,  before  whose 
door,  sure  enough,  there  hung  the  bloody  hide  of 
a  recently  slaughtered  beast. 

"Poor  mammy!  Oh,  my  helpless  cow!"  sobbed 
she.  "  Look !  look !  her  skin  !  all  bedabbled  with 
blood!" 

But  Luke  put  an  end  to  her  lamentations,  by 
seizing  her  arm  and  pushing  her  before  him  into 
the  cottage. 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  41 


CHAPTER  W, 

The  morning  after  these  occurrences,  Clara  was 
sitting  in  a  lower  room  of  the  stone  farm-house. 
On  her  lap  lay  a  garment  of  her  father's,  and  she 
was  trying,  with  needle  and  thread,  to  mend  its 
numerous  rents. 

All  around  her  was  unusually  still  and  lonely; 
not  a  noise,  not  a  sound,  either  within  or  without, 
broke  the  deep  repose  which  brooded  over  the 
spacious  apartment.  Even  the  pendulum  of  the 
clock  hung  motionless ;  and  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
the  wheels  had  been  long  doomed  to  inaction,  for 
both  the  hands  had  fallen  by  their  own  weight  and 
pointed  to  the  number  six. 

Very  little  furniture  adorned  this  best  room  of 
the  stone  farm ;  its  scantiness  revealed  that  poverty 
had  her  dwelling  here.  From  the  wretched  con- 
dition of  the  few  things  that  remained,  one  might 
conjecture  that  decay  and  slow  ruin  had  prevented 
the  inhabitants  from  replacing  gradually  w^hat  was 
worn  out  and  mending  what  was  broken. 

Thus  in  the  farther  corner  stood  two  chairs,  but 
their  rush  bottoms  were  broken  and  stuck  up  m 
the  air  like  the  bristles  of  a  hedge-hog;  a  little 
farther  off  were  two  others,  each  with  one  or  two 

4* 


42  THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE. 

of  its  legs  broken.     Yes,  one  could  see  that  the 
leaf  of  the  table  and  the  corners  of  the  great  ward 
robe  had  been  injured  by  violence;  for  the  miss- 
ing pieces  could  not  have  been  broken  off  except 
by  a  great  effort  and  on  purpose. 

On  the  dresser — where  our  farm-houses  usually 
make  a  very  brilliant  display  of  pewter  plates, 
dishes,  and  spoons — stood  only  two  or  three  tin 
trenchers,  the  crushed  and  bent  edges  of  which 
also  indicated  violence.  The  rest  of  the  things 
yvere  nothing  but  fragments:  plates  with  pieces 
out  of  their  rims,  jugs  without  lip  or  handle, 
spoons  with  broken  handles,  forks  with  their 
prongs  dislocated  or  wanting. 

And  yet,  withal,  every  thing  in  this  room  was 
neat  and  clean.  The  tin  trenchers  shone  like 
silver,  not  a  speck  dimmed  the  brightness  of  the 
well-scoured  plates,  the  woodwork  of  the  chairs 
was  well  washed,  and  on  the  floor  of  red  tiles, 
sadly  injured  here  and  there,  glittering  sand  had 
been  sprinkled  in  fantastic  patterns.  No  one 
could  doubt  that  in  this  house  there  was  some 
one  who  exerted  every  effort  to  conceal  as  far  as 
possible  the  tokens  of  approaching  poverty. 

Clara  continued  her  work  in  silence,  although 
her  countenance  gave  indication  of  manifold  and 
varied  meditations.  A  smile  of  gentle  gladness 
played  restlessly  about  her  mouth,  her  dark  eyes 
glowed  with  a  soft  light,  her  bosom  rose  and  fell 
more  quickly  than  usual,  and  her  very  lips  kept 
moving,  as  though  she  were  whispering  words  of 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  43 

hope  to  herself.  From  time  to  time  she  paused 
and  turned  her  head  in  the  direction  of  a  small 
door,  and  hearkened  whether  any  sound  came 
from  behind  it. 

After  having  kept  her  eyes  fixed  for  a  long  time 
on  her  work,  she  raised  her  head  and  said,  half 
aloud,  as  if  talking  to  herself: 

"Ah,  won't  father  be  glad? — l^ow  I  know  what 
has  made  liim  unhappy  for  so  long  a  time.  It 
was  the  being  forced  to  leave  his  farm !  It  was 
shame  that  was  gnawing  at  his  heart;  it  was  to 

drown  his  bitter  grief  that  he wandered  about 

so  dejectedly  from  morning  to  night.  But  now 
Farmer  Torfs  will  help  us,  and  set  us  up  again ; 
the  good  man — ^lie  says  that  he  will  raise  my  father 
out  of  his  poverty,  and  make  his  life  calm  and 
peaceful.  Oh,  ray  God !  may  this  come  to  pass ! 
Perhaps  then  he  will  be  cured  of  the  horrid  vice ; — 
but  what  could  Luke  want  to  make  me  understand 
with  his  extraordinary  gestures  and  grimaces? 
There  is  a  secret  I  must  not  know.  I  am  sure  it 
must  be  a  merry  secret,  for  Luke  could  scarcely 
contain  himself  for  joy.  lie  turned  and  wriggled 
about  on  his  chair,  then  he  jumped  up  as  if  he  had 
something  to  tell  me,  then  he  sat  down  again  in  a 
hurry,  and  looked  deep  into  my  eyes — I  am  quite 
dying  of  curiosity.     What  can  it  be?" 

The  maiden  bowed  her  head,  and,  while  a  quiet 
Bmile  lingered  on  her  countenance,  she  tried  to 
guess  what  it  could  be  that  they  were  so  anxious 
to  keep  from  her.     At  last  her  expression  relapsed 


44  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAQE. 

into  its  ordinary  cast  of  seriousness,  and,  resunriing 
the  thread  of  her  former  musings,  she  said — 

^*  Really,  I  do  think  father  is  a  little  hetter 
now !  He  went  yesterday  to  pay  off*  a  part  of  his 
arrears  of  rent.  This  must  have  given  him  great 
comfort,  and  he  will  rise  this  morning  with  a 
lighter  heart.  Yes,  yes,  he  will  talk  in  a  friendly 
way  with  Farmer  Torfs :  my  poor  white  mammy 
will,  after  all,  have  helped  to  make  us  very  happy 
hy  her  death.  But  father  stays  too  long  in  bed. 
Eight  o'clock  already !  Anyhow,  it  was  very  late 
when  he  came  home.  Perhaps  he  may  he  sick. 
Ah,  if  he  should  have  one  of  his  wretched  head- 
aches, and  be  quite  distracted  with  pain !  I  v/ish 
I  could  go  into  his  room  and  see.  1:^0,  no;  he 
would  only  be  angry  with  me,  perhaps.  And 
Farmer  Torfs,  who  may  come  any  moment — I  don't 
know — I  am  quite  at  a  loss.  Father  cannot  endure 
old  Torfs.  Suppose  he  should  begin  to  abuse  him 
or  treat  him  ill!" 

She  raised  her  eyes  beseechingly  to  heaven,  and 
her  lips  moved  in  deep  though  quiet  prayer. 

At  this  moment  a  man's  head  appeared  at  the 
window  which  looked  out  into  the  street.  It  was 
Luke,  who,  with  his  neck  stretched  out  at  full 
length,  and  his  face  all  smiles,  was  looking  into 
the  room  from  the  street. 

But  no  sooner  did  his  eye  fall  on  the  young 
maiden,  who  with  folded  hands  gazed  steadfastly 
toward  heaven,  than  he  was  struck  with  wonder 
and  admiration ;  an  expression  of  surprise  banished 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.         45 

the  smile  from  his  countenance,  and  he  stood,  with 
his  mouth  open,  gazing  fixedly  on  the  praying  girl. 

How  charming  did  she  now  appear  in  his  eyes, 
now  when  her  moistened  eyes  were  uplifted  in 
trustful  prayer  to  God,  now  that  the  glow  of  her 
eager  petition  and  the  sw^eet  smile  of  her  entreaty 
irradiated  her  graceful  form  w^ith  a  beauty  super- 
human ! 

The  young  man  might  have  lingered  long  in 
utter  forgetfulness  of  all  but  the  lovely  vision 
before  him ;  but  the  maiden's  prayer  ceased,  her 
head  had  sunk  on  her  bosom,  and  she  had  begun 
again  to  talk  aloud  to  herself,  in  a  sort  of  half 
distraction. 

Luke  suddenly  disappeared  from  the  window; 
a  moment  after,  Clara  w^as  surprised  to  hear  a 
gentle  knock  at  the  outer  door.  She  turned  round 
and  saw  her  friend  Luke,  who  nodded  to  her  and 
gave  her  a  sign  that  she  should  make  no  noise. 
When  the  maiden  had  come  near  him,  he  asked, 
in  a  low  voice — 

"  Clara,  is  your  father  up  yet?" 

"No,  he  is  still  asleep,"  w^as  the  answer. 

"Haven't  you  heard  him  stirring  yet?" 

"l^otyet." 

"  My  father  has  sent  me  to  see  whether  he  can 
come  now  to  speak  to  Farmer  Staers." 

He  then  raised  the  damsel's  hand,  and  with  an 
air  of  joyful  mystery  he  drew  her  into  the  corner 
near  the  door,  and  then  he  whispered — 

"  Clara,  do  you  think  you  know  what  my  father 


46  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

has  to  propose  to  yours?  Ila!  hai  you  know 
nothing  at  all  about  it.  It  is  the  most  beautiful, 
altogether  the  most  beautiful  thing  you  could  ever 
imagine !" 

"  Oh,  Luke,"  said  the  maiden,  in  a  coaxing  tone, 
while  her  eyes  glistened  with  eager  curiosity,  "  do 
tell  me  what  it  is ;  I  haven't  slept  all  night  long 
for  thinking  about  it;  the  secret  was  every  mo- 
ment before  me ;  I  could  not  close  my  eyes :  I  can't 
imagine  what  it  can  be." 

"Ah,  if  you  had  known  what  it  is,  Clara,  you 
would  have  had  better  reason  for  lying  awake.  I 
liaven't  slept  a  wink  all  the  night  either — at  least, 
so  far  as  I  know.  Oh,  it  is  something,  something 
so — I  can't  tell  you  what — it  is  just  the  thing  to 
make  you  jump  ten  feet  into  the  air  for  joy.  I 
have  already  cut  more  capers  this  morning  than  in 
a  whole  Kermes  day." 

Clara  looked  at  him  with  entreaty  in  her  eyes, 
and  as  if  she  would  draw  the  reluctant  words  out 
of  his  mouth,  when  he  suddenly  changed  his  tone, 
and  said — 

"  Oh,  lassie,  lassie,  you  would  like  to  know  what 
it  is ;  wouldn't  you,  now?  yes,  I  know  that  right 
well.  If  you  could  only  half  guess  what  it  is,  you 
might  get  me  to  tell  you  the  rest,  but  that  you 
can't  do.  Father  has  forbidden  me — and  so  you 
see  clearly,  I  can't  tell  you.  Beautiful!  and  so 
blissful !  this  news !  when  you  hear  it,  and  it  can't 
be  more  than  two  hours  more,  you  won't  know 
what  to  do  with  yourself  for  joy." 


THE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  47 

"Won't  you  tell  me?"  asked  the  maiden,  with  a 
little  vexation  on  her  face,  and  a  slight  accent  of 
threatening  in  her  tone  of  voice. 

"Don't  he  sulky,  Clara;  I  must  not.  Else! — 
You  may  fancy  I  have  heen  ready  to  hurst  ever 
Bince  I  knew  it.  Last  evening  and  this  morning, 
as  soon  as  I  was  alone,  I  have  been  telling  you  all 
about  it  out  aloud  more  than  twenty  times — but  I 
couldn't  tell  it  to  you  as  you  stand  there  now — no, 
not  for  the  world.  But  if  you  did  know  it,  oh, 
oh, — how  you  would  laugh!" 

"Get  along  with  you!"  muttered  Clara,  turning 
away  from  him.  "  You  have  come  here  only  to 
tease  me  and  vex  me!  my  father  may  get  up  any 
moment,  and  he  would  be  very  angry  if  he  sur- 
prised you  here." 

"But  why?  my  father  has  sent  me  —  and  be- 
sides, as  soon  as  I  hear  any  thing,  I  shall  be  off 
like  a  shot." 

"A  likely  thing,  indeed,  that  I  should  be  sulky ! 
if  you  would  only  stay  away — " 

"  Come  here,  Clara,"  said  the  youth,  "  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it — I  can't  keep  it  in  any  longer. 
Will  you  hold  your  tongue  about  it?  you  won't 
tell  your  father^" 

"  Lasses  know  how  to  keep  secrets  better  than 
lads,"  answered  Clara,  again  coming  close  to 
Luke. 

"  So !  that  means  that  I  ought  to  keep  my 
secret — and  now,  a  plague  on  my  face  ! — it  won't 
keep  still — I  car't  say  a  word  for  laughing." 


48  THE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE. 

"Well,  now,  are  you  going  to  tell  me?  torment 
that  you  are!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes ;  wait  a  hit,  Clara." 

lie  cast  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  seemed  to 
r.e  meditatiiig. 

'*IIave  you  forgotten  it?"  said  the  girl,  in  a 
mocking  and  impatient  tone. 

'■'  I'orgotten !  oh,  yes ;  it  isn't  so  easy  to  forget 
things  like  this,"  stammered  Luke;  "hut  you  see 
1  don't  know  what  ails  me ;  I  can't  tell  how  to  set 
about  it.  I  had  thought  it  all  over  and  over;  hut 
it  is  not  so  easy  to  say  things  like  this  right  out 
m  the  face  of — of  a  young  girl — Clara,  I  am  so 
ashamed." 

"  What  a  haby  you  are,  Luke !  It  is  beautiful, 
and  happy,  and  all  that,  you  say;  there  is  no 
great  mischief,  then.  IIow  can  you  be  ashamed 
about  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  anxious  to  know  how  you  will 
take  it!" 

"Look  3^ou,  Luke;  if  you  are  not  going  to 
speak  right  out,  I  shall  run  away !" 

"  Listen,  then ;  but  don't  be  too  glad,  Clara, 
and  try  to  restrain  yourself,  else  you  may  forget 
yourself  in  your  joy,  and  make  a  disturbance. 
My  father  is  coming  here  to  make  a  proposal  to 
yours." 

"  Well,  I  knew^hat  before." 

"  Yes,  but  there  is  another  proposal — ^how  shall 
I  get  it  out  ?  Clara,  you  have  always  wished  me 
well,  haven't  you?" 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  4& 

**Eut  why  do  you  ask  such  stupid  questions*:* 

"  And  if  you  had  to  choose  among  all  the  lads 
Oi  the  village,  which  would  you  choose?" 

"Oh,  you  have  lost  your  senses  I"  muttered 
Clara,  impatiently. 

"Come,  come,"  sighed  Luke,  "I  will  try  to 
bring  it  out  better  somehow.  My  father  is  com 
ing  to  see  your  father  to — to — " 

"To!— to!— to  what?" 

"  To  ask  whether  Luke  may  marry  Clara  !* 

The  maiden,  as  if  petrified  w^itli  astonishment, 
gazed  incredulously  at  him. 

"  Whether  we  may  go  and  live  in  a  little  cot- 
tage, and  be  man  and  wdfe,"  repeated  the  young 
man,  with  joy  in  every  gesture. 

Clara  trembled ;  a  sudden  paleness  drove  the 
color  from  her  cheek,  and  then  cheek  and  fore- 
head glowed  with  fierj^  crimson,  and  she  bent  her 
eyes  on  the  ground  in  violent  emotion. 

Accusing  himself  as  the  cause  of  her  perturba- 
tion, Luke  sighed  sorrowfully: 

"Yes,  didn't  I  tell  you,  Clara,  that  you  would 
be  ashamed?  It  is  j^our  own  fault:  you  forced 
me  to  tell  you." 

The  girl  remained  silent,  and  from  eacb  eye 
dropped  a  glistening  tear. 

"  Oh,  Clara,"  said  Luke,  imploringly,  "  don't  be 
vexed  about  it.  Think,  now,  my  father  will  help 
yours  to  pay  all  his  debts,  and  stand  by  him  aa 
a  friend  and  adviser.  We  shall  go  away,  and  live 
in  our  little  cottage,  and  work. together,  and  save, 

P  .  5 


.50  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

and  live  in  tranquil  happiness.  Too  long  have 
you  endured  pain  and  grief,  and  sat  weeping  in 
dreary  loneliness.  I  shall  hold  nothing  so  dear 
as  your  happiness ;  I  will  slave  from  morning  to 
night  to  provide  for  you;  I  shall  love  you,  and 
make  every  thing  around  you  smile  on  you.  My 
mother  will  be  your  mother, —  she  loves  you  so 
dearly  already.  And,  do  you  know,  last  evening 
she  took  out  of  her  box  her  gold  chain  with  the 
large  golden  heart,  and  she  said,  'This  is  for  Clara, 
my  daughter !'  But  why  do  you  weep  so  bitterly, 
Clara?  Your  father,  when  he  sees  happiness 
open  all  around  him,  and  all  cares  are  removed 
from  his  mind, — when  he  meets  with  nothing  but 
friendship  and  aftection, — ah,  then  he  will  be  cured 
of  his  dreadful  malady,  and  his  old  age  will  yet 
be  peaceful  and  happy !" 

While  -Luke  was  speaking,  the  damsel  had 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  was  sobbing 
aloud. 

*' Oh,  God!"  said  Luke,  with  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, "I  thought  you  would  have  jumped  for 
joy  like  me,  and  there  you  stand  crying  as  if 
something  very  bad  had  happened.  But  you 
have  only  to  sa}',  Clara,  that  you  won't  have  me, 
— I  will  go  home — and  I  shall  fall  sick — and — " 

Suddenly  a  loud  noise  w^as  heard  behind  the 
door  of  a  small  chamber,  as  of  something  that 
fell  to  the  ground  with  a  crash  and  was  broken  in 
pieces. 

"My   father, —  my  father  is  coming,"  sobbed 


THE   CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  51 

the  girl,  with  terror  depicted  on  her  countenance. 
Luke  made  a  step  toward  the  door,  folded  his 
hands  in  a  gesture  of  earnest  entreaty,  pleaded — 

"  Clara,  Clara,  you  will  consent  after  all,  won't 
you  ?  oh,  don't  let  me  die  of  sorrow !  I  will  do 
any  thing  you  wish;  I  will  be  obedient  to  you,  and 
surround  you  with  love — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue!  be  off  with  you!"  said  the 
maiden,  with  a  confused  and  faltering  voice.  "My 
tears  are  tears  of  joy;  I  never  dared  to  hope  for 
so  much  happiness  on  earth — " 

"Ah!  thank  God,  it  was  all  for  joy!"  shouted 
the  youth,  in  an  ecstacy,  and  at  the  top  of  his 
voice,  as  he  ran  toward  the  door. 

Then  he  turned  back  again  a  step  or  two,  and 
said : — 

"Clara,  don't  say  a  word  to  anybody!  I  shall 
go  and  tell  my  father.  Good-by!  and  won't  we 
laugh  and  be  merry  with  mother  ?  Ha !  ha !  it 
was  all  for  joy !" 

lie  darted  out  at  the  door — and  when  he  was 
fairly  out  in  the  farmyard  he  threw  up  his  cap  in 
the  air  with  a  loud  shout : 

"The  lassie,  the  lassie !  it  was  all  for  joy !  it  was 
all  for  joy!" 

Clara  fixed  her  eyes  a  while  on  the  door  of  her 
father's  bedroom,  and,  hearing  no  further  sound, 
her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  intelligence  which 
had  so  deeply  moved  her.  She  wiped  away  her 
tears  and  sighed,  as  she  turned  her  eyes  to  heaven 
with  a  look  of  gratitude,  and  said — 


^2  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

"0  God,  how  good  tliou  art  to  me!  Dame 
Torfs  will  be  my  mother!  my  poor  father  will  be 
quite  cured !  yes,  he  will  be  quite  right  again,  and 
be  happy  in  his  old  age  !  Luke  and  I  will  toil  and 
be  careful  now,  to  make  his  life  pleasant4o  him, 
to  tend  him,  to  give  him  all  he  needs.  Alas!  I 
have  from  my  childhood  pined  and  sighed  within 
these  four  walls;  and  now  I  shall  live  with  friends 
who  love  me  dearly;  I  shall  be  always  merry,  and 
work  and  sing— 0  my  God,  I  thank  thee!  it  is  a 
heaven  on  earth!" 

Again  she  heard  a  slight  noise, — the  door  was 
opened,  and  Jan  Staers,  her  father,  entered  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  Y. 


Jan  Staers  was  a  man  above  the  middle  size ; 
but  although  his  frame  indicated  great  muscular 
power,  his  limbs  hung  loose  and  disjointed,  and 
his  dull  inanimate  countenance  was  bloated  and 
pallid. 

The  brio^ht  lio^ht  of  the  sun  had  taken  him  bv 
surprise  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  close  his  weak  and  bloodshot  eyes.  His  hair 
hung  negligently  over  his  forehead,  and  his  clothes 
were  soiled  and  disordered. 

He  stood  a  while  at  the  door,  pressing  his  hand 
heavily  on  his  head,  like  one  who  is  suffering  -from 
a  violent  headache.     In  the  mean  time,  Clara,  after 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  53 

a  word  of  affectionate  greeting,  had  run  to  tlie 
hearth,  placed  on  the  table  a  coffee-pot,  a  loaf  and 
some  butter,  and  set  a  chair  for  him. 

With  downcast  eyes,  and  without  speaking  a 
word,  hk  legs  trembling  under  him  as  he  moved, 
Jan  Staers  drew  near  the  table  and  let  himself 
drop  into  his  chair.  The  sunlight  seemed  still  to 
annoy  him  a  great  deal,  for  he  looked  fiercely  out 
of  the  window,  and  then  saicl  to  Clara,  in  a  tone 
of  great  irritation — 

"  Shut  the  window,  can't  you  ?" 

Clara  obeyed  his  command,  and  then  remained 
standing  in  silence  at  a  little  distance.  Meanwhile 
Jan  Staers  took  the  loaf  and  tried  to  cut  oft*  a 
corner  of  the  crust,  but  his  hand  trembled  and 
shook  so  violently,  that  he  found  it  utterly  impos- 
sible to  help  himself.  He  threw  down  the  loaf 
sulkily,  with  such  violence  that  he  broke  another 
piece  out  of  the  plate  that  contained  the  butter. 
lie  growled  some  words  that  sounded  like  an  oath, 
but  restrained  himself  when  he  saw  that  Clara, 
anticipating  his  wish,  was  cutting  some  slices  of 
bread  and  butter  for  him. 

"Father  dear!"  said  the  girl,  with  an  insinua- 
ting tone,  "  don't  be  vexed.  I  will  do  all  that  you 
wish ;  only  keep  in  a  good  temper  and  don't  worry 
yourself.  Our  neighbor  Torfs  is  coming  directly 
to  speak  to  you  about  something." 

"  The  hypocritical  old  hunks !  lie  dare  to  come 
into  my  house,  will  he?  But  you  have  been  cry 
ing — always  at  your  old  tricks  !'*  . 

6« 


54  THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

"  Oil,  father,  Farmer  Torfs  means  to  make  you 
such  a  nice  proposal ;  he  will  save  us  from  rain, 
and  make  us  so  happ}^ — " 

"I  won't  see  him,  I  tell  you.  Don't  mention  it; 
it  only  vexes  me." 

The  girl  retired  two  or  three  steps  behind  her 
father's  chair,  and  there  remained  standing,  with 
her  troubled  look  bent  on  the  floor.  Jan  Staei-s 
took  the  bread  and  butter,  and  began  to  eat ;  then 
he  threw  it  down  in  disgust,  and  said — 

"It  is  dry  as  sand.  A  bit  of  wood  has  more 
taste  in  it.     Why  haven't  you  got  fresh  bread  ?" 

Clara  was  silent. 

"  Why  is  there  no  fresh  bread  in  the  house  ?" 
repeated  he,  still  louder. 

"The  baker  will  not  tmst  us  any  longer,"  stam- 
mered the  poor  girl. 

An  expression  of  anger  clouded  her  father's 
countenance.  Without  further  remark,  he  buried 
his  head  in  his  hands,  and  remained  for  some  time 
thus  without  moving. 

The  damsel  looked  at  him  in  silent  sorrow,  and 
exerted  herself  to  restrain  the  tears  that  were  start- 
ing from  her  eyes.  After  a  while  she  went  close 
to  him,  stroked  his  hand  coaxingly  with  hers,  and 
said,  in  a  tone  of  entreaty — 

"Don't  fret  yourself,  father;  things  will  go  better 
soon.  Farmer  Torfs  has  some  good  project  to 
talk  to  you  about.  Do  drink  another  cup  of 
warm  coffee ;  it  will  brighten  you  up  and  cheer 
you." 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  55 

"The  grovelling  hypociite,  the  sneaking  rascal, 
who  has  his  eye  on  my  farm!"  roared  Jan  Staers, 
in  a  voice  choked  by  rage.  "Let  him  come;  I 
will  very  soon  kick  him  out  at  the  door  I" 

At  these  savage  threats,  Clara  could  no  longer 
refrain  herself;  her  cup  of  sorrow  overflowed,  and 
Avith  a  cry  of  anguish  she  sank  down  upon  a  chair, 
placed  her  hand  before  her  eyes,  and  wept  and 
sobbed  aloud. 

Her  emotion  pained  her  father  deeply ;  he  wrung 
his  hands  and  ground  his  teeth  in  a  paroxysm  of 
impatience  and  rage,  and  at  length  said — 

"I  have  a  pain  in  my  head,  Clara,  child;  why 
will  you  worry  me  so  with  your  whims  and  tricks? 
....  now,'  now,  out  with  it,  what  do  you  want 
me  to  do?" 

"Answer  me,  then!"  he  cried,  angrily,  after  a 
brief  pause. 

"0  father,"  said  the  poor  weeping  girl,  beseech- 
ingly, "don't  be  churlish  to  Farmer  Torfs.  Listen 
to  him  with  good  nature ;  what  he  has  to  say  to 
you  will  make  you  very  glad." 

"Have  done,  then,  with  your  blubbering;  I  will 
listen  to  what  he  has  to  say,  even  if  I  burst  with 
rage." 

"No,  no,  father  dear,"  sobbed  Clara,  "not  so; 
you  will  listen  to  him  with  friendship  and  kindly 
feeling." 

Jan  Staers  raised  his  head  again,  and  remained 
a  few  moments  without  speaking.  The  thought 
was  evidently  very  painful,  and  the  struggle  with- 


^6  THE    CURSt:    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

in,  a  violent  one.  At  last  he  said  suddenly  and 
sharply — 

"  Let  me  alone ;  you  will  keep  talking  to  me — 
it  worries  me,  I  tell  you ;  your  voice  makes  my 
head  split:  get  along — ^be  off  from  this;  I  will 
call  you  if  I  want  f  ou." 

But  when  he  saw  that  his  words  had  made  her 
tears  flow  afresh  and  more  plentifully,  he  added, 
in  a  milder  tone — 

*'  Come,  now,  I  will  try  my  best  to  listen  to  the 
old  hunks  with  patience." 

The  poor  Clara  raised  her  apron  to  her  eyes, 
and  slowly  left  the  room.  Jan  Staers  followed 
her  with  his  eyes  until  she  had  quite  disappeared. 
Then  he  rose  up  and  made  a  few  unsteady  steps 
across  the  room ;  he  then  stood  still,  pressed  his 
arms  convulsively  to  his  side,  stamped  with  his 
foot,  and  seemed  abandoned  to  utter  despair. 

Again  he  made  a  few  steps,  muttered  some 
moody  curses,  and  shook  his  head  in  deep  thought, 
as  though  he  were  making  a  violent  effort  to  recall 
some  things  which  had  escaped  his  memory. 
From  time  to  time  he  shivered  in  every  limb,  and 
exclaimed,  as  if  in  pain  or  great  uneasiness — 

"  Whew — how  cold  ! — my  brain  is  all  on  fire, 
and  my  body  is  quite  frozen!" 

All  at  once  his  eyes  began  to  beam  with  a 
melancholy  lustre,  and  an  expression  of  deep  sus- 
pense overspread  his  face ;  it  was  as  if  a  sudden 
illumination  had  been  cast  on  his  mind.  From 
liis  chest  issued  a  hoarse  rattling  sound,  and  he 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE    VILLAGE.  57 

struck  himself  passionately  on  the  forehead  with 
his  clenched  fist,  as  though  he  would  have  broken 
his  skull. 

Exhausted  by  this  overtension  of  his  powers, 
and  subdued  by  pain,  he  staggered  to  the  table, 
and  let  himself  drop  into  his  'chair  with  a  deej: 
sigh.  Then,  with  his  bewildered  gaze  fixed  on  thp 
floor,  he  exclaimed,  in  a  forlorn,  despairing  tone— 

"Damnable  poison!  curse  of  soul  and  bodj 
both !  ah,  he  who  invented  you  was  a  cruel  enemj 
of  his  kind.  Despicable  drunkard  that  I  am  !  w^hal 
a  wretched  pass  I  have  brought  myself  to !  The 
blessed  light  torments  me ;  my  whole  body  is 
trembling ;  my  very  soul  is  dry  and  waste ;  I  can 
neither  walk  nor  stand,  nor  eat  nor  drink  !  In  my 
head  is  a  dark,  hideous  chaos  of  despair,  of  rage 
of  guilt,  of  remorse,  and  of  coward  impotence 
and  my  child,  my  poor  Clara !  she  is  sufferi^ig 
she  is  pining  uncomplainingly  away;  I  requite  li^ 
love  with  anger  and  surliness — I  am  her  father, 
and  I  must  be  under  constant  obligation  to  her — 
and,  oh  cursed  destiny!  I  am  her  murderer!  in 
vile  selfishness,  I  have  blighted  and  wasted  her 
young  life  !  "Were  God  to  punish  me — to  kill  me 
— it  would  be  a  blessing  for  her.  IIow  ghastly  a 
thought  that  a  father's  death  should  be  a  blessing 
to  his  child !" 

This  last  thought  seemed  to  shock  him  terribly ; 
he  gnashed  his  teeth  fiercely,  and  clutched  tlje 
table  so  violently  with  his  hands  that  it  seemed  to 
bend  beneath  the  pressure  of  his  fingers. 


58  THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

After  this  violent  convulsive  movement  he  re- 
mained awhile  quite  still;  and  then  his  counte- 
nance began  again  to  work  with  painful  emotions. 
Holding  his  fingers  pressed  on  his  forehead,  as 
though  to  coerce  his  refractory  memory,  his  cheeks 
became  all  at  once  bloodless,  under  the  impulse 
of  a  sudden  alarm. 

"Yesterday,"  he  muttered,  "yesterday  I  was  to 
have  gone  to  the  town.  Yes,  I  had  some  money 
— money  to  pay  an  instalment  of  my  rent.  But 
where  did  I  go  ?  what  did  I  do  with  myself?  how 
did  I  get  here  ?  let  me  see — can  I  have  paid  the 
rent? — ah!  wretched  man!  I  got  drunk,  I  fell 
asleep — " 

And  with  trembling  haste  he  raised  his  blouse, 
and  unclasped  a  leathern  belt  that  was  fastened 
ai'ound  his  waist.  He  shook  a  number  of  pieces 
of  money  out  of  the  belt  upon  the  table,  his  coun- 
tenance the  while  bearing  an  expression  of  deep- 
est anxiety.  He  seized  several  of  the  pieces,  and 
tried  to  count  them ;  and  now  his  frame  shook 
more  violently  still,  and  he  felt  as  if  each  separate 
hair  were  standing  erect  on  his  head  from  sheer 
despair. 

"Horror  of  horrors!"  he  exclaimed;  "lost! 
stolen !  I  must  count  them  over  again ;  perhaps 
I  have  made  a  mistake." 

He  then  tried  hastily  to  arrange  the  pieces  of 
gold  in  two  rows ;  but  his  hand  shook  so  tremu- 
loush^,  that  it  was  with  extreme  difliculty  that  he  at 
length  succeeded,  after  a  fashion ;  and  many  a  bit- 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  59 

ter  word,  many  a  deadly  curse,  rolled  from  his  lips 
during  the  oj^eration. 

Ilis  terror  became  greater  still,  and  a  cold  per- 
spiration broke  out  all  over  him;  for  he  counted 
and  counted  again,  and  still  found  himself  a  con- 
siderable sum  short.  And  at  length  he  was  forced 
to  give  up  all  hope  that  he  was  mistaken  in  his 
reckoning.  A  violent  tremor  sliook  his  whole 
body;  he  tore  his  hair,  and  roared,  in  a  tone  of 
despair — 

*' Fifty  francs!  fifty  francs  short!  where  can 
they  have  gone?  Ah,  I  had  sold  our  last  cow — 
and  the  money  was  to  have  stopped  the  ejectment; 
and  now,  now  I  shall  be  driven  out  of  my  farm, 
and  turned  out  into  the  street  like  a  dog — and 
then  go  and  beg !  I  must  be  jeered — be  despised 
— be  pointed  at  with  the  finger,  as  a  contemptible 
drunkard !  And  my  poor  Clara !  what  will  be- 
come of  her?  perdition — may  perdition  seize 
me!" 

And  he  uttered  a  cry  so  shrill  and  so  full  of 
distress,  that  it  seemed  as  though  his  heart  had 
broken  in  twain  within  him. 

He  then  started  up,  strode  furiously  up  and 
down  the  room,  struck  his  fists  against  the  walls 
until  they  bled,  kicked  the  chairs  in  all  directions, 
and  gave  utterance  to  all  kinds  of  cries  of  des- 
l)eration  and  rage.  Then,  when  he  had  exhausted 
his  passion,  he  stood  suddenly  still.  An  inde- 
scribable smile  of  joy  and  of  derision  lighted  up 
his  features  as  he  turned  his  glisteuing  eyes  toward 


60  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

the  door  of  his  sleeping-apartment;  and  he  ex- 
claimed, as  if  beside  himself — 

"Ah,  ah  !  light  and  clearness  for  the  spirit,  vigor 
for  the  body,  energy  for  the  will, — there  they  are, 
behind  the  door,  in  a  flask !  I  have  surrendered 
my  reason,  my  whole  soul,  to  the  demon  of  drink ; 
he  alone  can  lend  them  back  to  me  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. And  I  must,  I  must  have  them  now. 
Advise  me,  advise  me — ^j^es,  for  the  last  time,  the 
very  last  time  ;  yet  this  once — only  this  once — " 

And  while  finishing  these  words,  he  sprang 
toward  the  door,  and  disappeared  in  the  little 
adjoining  room.  And  now  for  some  time  there 
was  a  silence  as  of  death  throughout  the  farm- 
house ;  only,  at  intervals,  a  dull  mufiled  sound,  like 
the  gurgling  of  a  liquid  from  the  mouth  of  a  flask 
reached  the  large  room. 

When  Jan  Staers  again  made  his  appearance,  he 
was  scarcely  to  be  recognised  for  the  same  man. 
His  countenance  was  lighted  up  by  a  gentle  smile, 
his  eyes  were  bright  and  wide  open,  his  head  stood 
erect  and  firm  on  his  shoulders ;  he  no  longer  trem- 
bled and  staggered,  and  his  cheeks  were  suflTused 
with  a  warm  and  rich  blood.  His  every  gesture 
betokened  freedom,  courage,  and  energy. 

Approaching  the  table,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
scornful  merriment — 

"  So,  so, — the  miserly  wretches, — they  thought  it 
was  all  over  with  Jan  Staers,  did  they  ?  the  stupid 
blockheads !  they  clapped  their  hands  when  they 
saw  him  turned. out  of  the  stone  farm,  did  they? 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  Gl 

AVcll,  I  am  not  quite  done  up  3^et.  Hal  ha!  Mt  18 
poison,'  whine  the  stupid  scoundrels ;  exquisite 
poison,  delicious  poison,  that  courses  through  my 
veins  like  a  living  flame!  Ha!  ha!  now  I  havo 
sense  enough  ;  it  is  clear  enough  now  here  inside, 
in  my  head.  But  let  us  be  quick.  I  have  emptied 
the  flask;  it  is  too  much,  perhaps.  Now  let  ua 
make  haste  to  count  the  money,  and  decide  what 
is  to  be  done  to  show  that  Jan  Staers  is  not  quite 
80  easily  to  be  thrown  on  his  back." 

Then  he  arranged  the  pieces  of  money,  and 
counted  them  readily  and  accurately. 

"  Only  forty  francs  short !"  he  exclaimed,  joy- 
ously; "ten  francs  gained!  but  now,  where  can 
these  tw^enty  florins  be  gone  ?  Ah,  I  know.  Yester- 
day I  didn't  go  to  the  town  at  all :  I  stopped  short 
at  the  ^Golden  Apple,'  on  the  Crossway.  It  was 
a  jolly  company :  I  lent  fifteen  florins  to  Klaes 
Grills,  the  sand-digger.  What  ever  makes  me 
always  play  the  rich  man  ?  Bah  !  it  w^as  only  it 
jest;  I  shall  get  my  money  again.  And  the  othei 
iive  florins  ?  Yes,  I  remember,  they  got  them  out 
of  me :  I  paid  all  the  reckoning.  Well,  come, 
come — ^there  are  no  pots  broken  as  yet.  I  will  be 
oft'  at  once  to  the  town,  and  carry  this  money  to 
my  covetous  old  landlord  ;  I  will  go  by  the  lower 
road,  so  as  not  to  pass  by  any  public-house.  He 
will  be  glad  enough  when  he  sees  his  cash ;  else 
who  will  take  off*  his  hands  this  tumble-down 
house  and  these  wretched  barren  fields  ? — who  ? 
Ah,  yes,  the  old  beetle,  perhaps :  the  niggardly  old 


(j2  the  curse  of  the  village. 

Torfs,  wlio  has  been  liankering  after  my  farm  tliis 
many  a  year,  and  splitting  eveiy  farthing  into  four 
to  manage  it.  But  I'll  let  him  see  !  To-morrow 
I'll  begin  to  work,  and  I  w^on't  drink  any  more ; 
no,  on  my  Hfe,  not  a  drop  more,  till  the  brooks  run 
gin.  I  will  sell  some  of  that  useless  rubbish  there 
in  the  great  glass  w^ardrobe.  My  name  is  worth 
money  still ;  I  shall  readily  find  a  horse  and  a 
couple  of  cows  somewhere  on  credit.  And  besides, 
I  will  drive  such  a  trade  in  grain  and  in  wood, 
and  by  care  and  intelligence  I  will  so  soon  put 
every  thing  straight,  that  the  envious  fellows  round 
me  will  burst  Avith  wonder  and  vexation.  Ah,  but 
w^ho  is  that  coming  ?  The  beetle,  I  declare,  wnth 
his  hypocritical  face ;  oh  that  I  could  kick  him 
out  at  the  door! — but  no,  no,  I  promised  Clara 
that  I  would  receive  him  in  a  friendly  way.  Come 
then,  I'm  in  a  good  temper  now;  I'll  be  a  good 
boy,  and  hear  out  what  the  old  rascal  has  to  say. 
It  wall  be  uncommonly  hard  work,  though." 

With  a  smile  of  conscious  pride,  he  looked  at 
the  old  Torfs  as  he  entered  the  room,  and  threw 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  just  as  if  he  were  some 
great  lord  w^ho  w^asj  receiving  a  beggar.  A  slight 
shade  of  vexation  came  over  Farmer  Torfs's  counte- 
nance when  his  eye  rested  on  Jan  Staers,  as  he 
bade  him  good-day,  for  he  saw  how  strange  and 
fierce  was  the  light  of  his  e3'e,  and  how  red  hia 
features  were. 

Going  up  to  him  with  a  friendly  smile,  he 
said — 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  03 

"Famier  Stacrs,  I  am  come  here  to  ask  some- 
tliiiig  of  you,  and  at  the  same  time  to  make  you 
a  weighty  proposal.  Are  you  prepared  to  listen 
to  me  with  cahnness?" 

"With  calmness?  what  do  you  mean?"  asked 
Staers,  contemptuously.  "Do  you  think  I  have 
lost  my  senses  ?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  in  displeasure,  as 
he  continued — 

"I  should  he  sorry  to  say  any  thing  to  displease 
you.  The  matter  on  which  I  am  going  to  speak 
to  you  is  very  serious ;  it  demands  on  both  sides 
the  greatest  consideration.  With  your  permission, 
I  will  take  a  seat." 

"What  difference  does  it  make  to  me  whether 
you  sit  or  stand?"  answered  the  other.  "Only 
make  haste ;  for  I  must  be  off  to  the  town  in  a 
very  short  time.  All  these  preambles  and  flourishes 
make  me  impatient — the  perspiration  stands  on  my 
forehead." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  my  remaining  here,"  said 
the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  vexation,  and  turning 
toward  the  door,  as  if  to  leave  the  room.  "  I  did 
not  come  here  either  to  jest  or  to  be  made  a  jest 
of." 

"l!^ow,  now,  sit  you  down,  neighbor,"  said 
Jan  Staers,  with  a  friendly  smile  :  "  it  is  only  my 
way.     Let  us  hear  what  you  want." 

"Will  you  listen  to  me  a  moment  without 
Interrupting  me?  I  like  talking  straight  on, 
you  see,  whenever  I  have  any  thing  to  say ;  but 


'64  THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

in  my  turn  L  can  hold  my  tongue  and  be  a  good 
listener." 

^'Say  on,  then  ;  and  if  I  interrupt  you,  may — " 

*•  There  is  no  need  of  that!"  interposed  the 
old  man,  as  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand  he  kept 
back  the  oath  that  Staers  was  about  to  utter. 

lie  then  sat  dow^n  on  a  chair,  and  said,  w^ith  im- 
pressive calmness — 

"  Staers,  you  have  a  child,  a  daughter.  It  would 
be  a  pleasure  to  you  to  see  her  happy,  would  it 
not  ?  You  are  a  father.  Always  alone  in  this  farm- 
house, without  company,  wailing  over  bitter  and 
painful  things:  you  can  conceive  that  her  life  must 
l)e  rather  weary  and  dull  —  now,  don't  be  impa- 
tient; let  me  have  my  say  out.  Clara  is  a  good 
lass,  and  desei-ves  a  better  lot;  and  it  would  be  in- 
deed melancholy  if  she  had  to  endure  new  sorrows; 
for  an  indelible  disgrace  would  deprive  her  of  the 
hope  of  a  happy  life — " 

*'What  are  you  prating  about  all  this  time?" 
growled  Staers,  with  kindling  eyes.  "Disgrace? 
what  disgrace  ?" 

"  Only  a  few  words  more  ;  don't  interrupt  me," 
continued  the  old  man,  calmly.  "  You  know  my 
son  Luke ;  he  is  a  fine  lad,  and  works  from  morn- 
ing to  night." 

"I  can  well  believe  that,  for,  if  he  didn't  work, 
what  on  earth  is  he  fit  for  else  ?" 

"  Well,  now,  neighbor,  it  seems  that  the  young 
folks  have  had  a  liking  for  each  other  for  a  long 
time,  and — "  . 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  ^5 

•     "  And,  and  ?"  said  the  other,  scornfully. 

'     "And  I  am  come  to  ask  the  hand  of  Clara  for 

Luke." 

Jan  Staers  burst  out  into  a  long  peal  of  laughter, 
which  produced  a  very  painful  effect  on  the  old 
man.  It  was  evident  that  Torfs  w^as  deeply 
wounded ;  for  he  raised  his  eyes  toward  his  neigh- 
bor with  wonder  and  inquiry,  and  said,  in  a  tone 
of  irritation — 

*'I  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  thing  so  veiy 
ludicrous  in  the  proposal  I  have  made." 

"l!^othing  ludicrous?"  shouted  the  othej*.  "Ila! 
ha!  the  daughter  of  Farmer  Staers  is  to  marry  the 
son  of  a  cattle-drover!  You  stick  your  horns 
rather  high,  neighbor :  God  be  praised,  I  am  not 
come  to  that  yet." 

The  aged  Torfs  was  obliged  to  put  forth  all  his 
strength  to  restrain  his  indignation  at  this  con- 
temptuous scoff.  His  lips  were  compressed  with 
anger,  and  his  hand  trembled  at  his  side.  It  was 
with  a  bitter  calmness  that  he  said — 

"  You  were  once  a  thriving  farmer,  and  I  was 
once  a  poor  cattle-drover;  but  we  are,  neither  of 
us,  what  we  were." 

"You  will  make  me  angry  in  a  moment,"  said 
Jan  Staers,  still  with  a  look  of  ineffable  contempt 
and  derision;  "yet  I  don't  want  to  heat  my  blood. 
So  you  think  that  I  am  fairly  come  to  an  end,  do 
you?  I'll  let  you  see  something  yet  you  little 
di'eam  of.  He  laughs  best  who  laughs  last !" 
.    The  old  mau  had  for  some  time  noticed  that 

E  6* 


6Q  THE   CUKSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

the  eyes  of  his  neighbor  glowed  with  a  peculiar 
firo ;  liis  smile,  his  gestures,  were  too  remarkable  to 
allow  him  to  doubt  that  Clara's  father  had  already 
drunk  too  much  that  morning.  And  with  this  con- 
viction, he  made  a  movement  toward  the  door; 
but  he  thought  of  his  son,  on  the  impossibility  of 
putting  off  the  matter,  and  he  sat  down  again  on 
his  chair,  and  said,  firmly  and  decisively — 

"You  may  interrupt  me  or  not,  as  you  please, 
I  will  say  out  all  I  have  to  say  to  you.  In  the 
name  of  your  child,  I  beseech  you  listen  to  me 
with  patience — " 

*'Now,  now,  go  yonr  own  way;  I  am  listening." 

"Look  you,  neighbor,"  said  the  old  man;  "it 
is  useless  to  play  with  mc,  or  have  any  disguise 
w^ith  me ;  I  know  the  state  of  your  affairs  too  accu- 
rately for  that.  I  know,  too,  that  to-morrow,  if 
not  to-day,  you  wdll  be  ejected  from  your  farm, 
because  you  have  not  paid  the  arrears  of  your  rent, 
and  the  term  of  the  writ  is  nearly  run  out.  I  know, 
too,  that  you  have  made  away  with  your  last  cow, 
but  the  money  you  got  for  it  is  not  enough,  and 
consequently — " 

Jan  Staers  struck  his  hand  among  the  pieces  ot 
money  which  were  scattered  about  on  the  table, 
and  their  pleasant  chink  echoed  through  the  room. 

"Money?"  exclaimed  he,  wdth  impetuosity. 
"Money?  there  is  money  for  you  !" 

"It  is  not  the  third  part  of  what  you  must  pay 
if  you  would  suspend  the  execution  of  the  w^rit: — 
if  you  will  only  be  reasonable,  I  will  advance  you 


THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE.  67 

at  once  what  you  want  to  make  np  your  whole 
rent." 

"You?"  said  Staers,  with  scornful  incredulity. 
**IIow^  did  you  come  by  it?" 

"Yes,  I.  And  why  not?  Do  you  think  that 
from  tw^enty  yeai^  of  hard  work  and  thrift  there  is 
not  enough  over,  when  one  has  had  a  good  land- 
lord?" 

"Oh,  yes,  our  landlord!  he'know^s  how  to  skin 
a  man  alive,  the  blood-sucker!" 

"I  Tvill  not  hear  that  said!"  indignantly  ex- 
claimed the  old  man.  "He  has  never  raised  my 
rent  over  me,  although  I  have  very  considerably 
increased  the  value  of  his  land." 

"Ah,  you  w^ill  lend  me  money!"  repeated  Jan 
Staers,  in  a  softer  tone.  "Well,  I  should  never 
have  expected  it  from  you.  "We  shall  become 
good  friends,  I  see.    How  much  will  you  lend  me  ?" 

"In  case  you  will  assent  to  the  happiness  of 
your  daughter  and  my  son,  I  wall  lend  you  enough 
to  clear  off  your  arrears  with  our  landlord;  and 
besides,  I  will  help  you  to  pay  off  all  your  debts 
by  degrees." 

"But,  Father  Torfs,  you  are  only  making  an  idle 
boast !  you  talk  of  money  as  if  it  grcw^  on  your 
back.  Have  ^^ou  found  a  treasure, — or  have  you 
stolen  one?  It  seems  likely  enough.  l!s'ow^  don't 
be  angry,  neighbor;  it  is  only  my  way  of  talking; 
I  don't  mean  any  harm.  What  were  w^e  saj'ing? 
Oh,  yes,  you  are  to  lend  me  money,  plenty  of 
money, — on  condition  that  your  son  shall  marry 


68  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

Clara.  Well,  now,  it  is  reasonable  enough;  tliero 
is  my  liand  to  it.  It  is  a  bargain.  Luke  can  come 
and  live  with  us,  and  work — there  is  land  enough. 
Why  do  you  draw  your  hand  away  ?  what  more  is 
wanting?" 

The  old  man  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then 
continued : 

"It  cannot  be  so,  neighbor  Jan.  Let  me  once 
for  all  explain  to  you  freely  and  fairly  my  whole 
intention.  Without  horses,  without  cows,  this 
farm  can  never  be  cultivated  properly.  My  son 
and  you  would  work  yourselves  to  death  for  no- 
thing ;  you  would  not  get  half  your  rent  off  the 
land.  ]^ow  this  is  my  plan;  I  have  some  little 
money,  and  plenty  of  credit;  I  will  take  your  land 
off  your  hands,  and  bring  my  horse  and  my  four 
cows  here  with  me.  I  will  buy  two  horses  besides, 
and  gradually  get  as  many  cows  as  are  necessary 
on  such  a  farm  as  this.  You  shall  live  on  with  us 
in  the  stone  farm-house.  Luke  and  Clara  will  put 
up  ^vith  my  present  little  cottage,  and  I  will  take 
care  they  have  enough  to  begin  life  in  a  quiet  way. 
You  will  have  no  further  cares  upon  your  mind, 
and  perhaps  you  would  become  fond  of  a  dwelling 
in  which  my  wife  and  I,  through  our  example  and 
our  kindness,  would  try  to  make  your  life  more 
pleasant  and  peaceful.  And  if  you  were  once 
cured  of  the  vice  which  is  the  cause  of  all  your 
misery,  then  you  would  have  good  reason  to  bless 
God,  neighbor  Jan.  Clara,  who  has  nothing  to 
look  forward  to.  but  poverty  and  wretchedness, 


THE   CURSE   OxT  THE    MLLAGE.  GO 

would  find  in  my  son  Luke  a  virtuous  husband, 
and  live  happily  with  him  to  the  end  of  her  days. 
Well,  now,  do  you  agree  to  my  proposal  ?  whole 
and  entire,  as  I  have  laid  it  down?" 

Jan  Staers,  whose  head  had  already  become  con- 
fused with  listening  so  long,  had  probably  deceived 
himself  as  to  the  drift  of  the  proposal ;  for  he  stood 
up  w^ith  joy,  and  was  throwing  his  arms  around 
the  neck  of  old  Torfs;  but  the  latter  drew  back  in 
doubt  and  consternation,  and  declined  the  embrace 
of  his  neighbor.  Nevertheless,  Staers  managed  to 
raise  both  the  old  man's  hands,  and  exclaimed: 
"Ab,  you  are  a  fine  fellow,  to  help  your  neighbor 
80  generously  and  nobly !     It  was  time,  indeed ; 

for  I  could  not  see  my  way  very  far  ahead 

well,  yes,  put  up  your  horse  and  your  cows  in  the 
stables  here, — I  give  you  free  room;  we  will  farm 
together  and  divide  the  profits.  Each  shall  have 
half;  that  seems  fair  enough." 

Shaking  his  head  with  vexation  and  compassion, 
the  old  Torfs  observed,  drily — 

"You  have  not  understood  me:  I  am  to  be 
tenant  here." 

"What!  what  do  you  say?"  roared  Jan  Staers, 
roused  to  a  fury  of  passion.  "You  are  to  be 
tenant  of  the  stone  farm-house  ? — and  what  is  to 
become  of  me?" 

"  You  are  to  live  with  me.  If  you  like  to  work, 
I  will  pay  you  for  your  work.  If  you  prefer  work- 
ing for  any  one  else,  or  would  rather  do  nothing 
at  all,  I  w^ill  give  you  free  board,  lodging,  and 


70 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 


clothing,  until  our  children  have  to  provide  for  ua 
all,  as  the  law  directs." 

Jan  Staers  seized  in  his  rage  the  first  ohject 
Tvithin  his  reach,  and  flung  it  with  violence  on  tho 
floor ;  the  plate  with  butter  lay  in  fragments  at  hi? 
feet.     With  a  flood  of  curses,  he  shrieked  out — 

"  What  will  come  to  me  next?  Ha,  that  is  just 
the  parable  of  our  curd — the  clay  cot  of  the  cattle- 
drover  is  to  devour  the  stone  farm-house  of  Jan 
Staers.  You  bite  very  close,  you  envious  old 
hunks — but  what  hinders  me  from  flattening  your 
hypocritical  old  face  against  the  wall?  You  are 
to  be  master,  and  I  to  be  servant !  To  come  here 
like  a  snake,  wriggling,  and  curling,  and  crawling, 
to  cheat  me  out  of  my  daughter  and  my  stone 
farm-house !" 

"  Cheat !"  repeated  the  old  man,  with  disdain. 
"These  two  years  and  more  our  landlord  has 
wished  to  put  me  into  your  farm  ;  I  have  refused, 
and  have  begged  him  to  have  patience  with  you, 
out  of  compassion  for  your  hapless  daughter — I 
see  well  what  her  end  must  be  ;  but  take  good 
heed  to  my  words,  Jan  Staers.  I  am  willing  iiow 
to  consent  to  the  marriage  of  my  son,  in  case  I 
can  prevent  the  disgrace  of  your  ejectment — ^l»ut 
if  that  ejectment  once  took  place,  I  should  say, 
no,  no ;  forever,  no  !" 

"Be  off,  out  of  my  sight,  I  tell  you!"  roared 
Staers.  "You  hideous  old  beetle,  set  your  foot 
on  my  threshold  again,  if  you  dare  !" 

He  raised  his  hand  and  made   a  gesture  of 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  Tl 

threatening  toward  the  graj-headed  old  man,  who 
was  moving  to  the  door.  lie  was  discomposed 
and  ruffled,  and  wound  the  leather  thong  of  his 
medlar  stick  around  his  wrist,  and  prepared  to 
defend  himself.  When  he  saw  that  Jan  Staers 
stood  still,  pouring  out  a  whole  volley  of  curses 
and  revilings,  he  said,  with  indignant  irritation — 

'*Ah,  I  have  no  fear  of  your  threats;  but  you 
are  in  your  own  house,  and  I  will  not  remain  here 
against  your  will.  I  will  say  only  a  few  words 
more  to  you ;  you  may  attend  to  them  or  not,  as 
vou  like.  Jan  Staers,  vou  are  a  heartless  father; 
you  have  spent  the  inheritance  of  your  daughter 
in  vice  and  drunkenness ;  you  are  poor,  the  beg- 
gar's wallet  awaits  you.  And  the  disgrace,  the 
ruin,  that  you  alone  have  deserved — you  will  force 
that  upon  your  innocent  child — to  the  very  ex- 
treme of  endurance — till  drink  has  killed  3'ou — till 
misery  has  made  her  pine  away.  I  came  to  rescue 
both  you  and  her;  I  was  ready  to  give  twenty 
years  of  the  sweat  of  my  brow  to  make  her  happy. 
In  your  selfishness,  in  your  pride,  you  have  crushed 
her  whole  future — her  whole  life.  Oh,  remember 
that  there  is  a  God  above  us !  He  will  punish 
you  for  your  baseness;  in  the  day  of  his  terrible 
judgment  he  will  ask  you  what  you  have  done 
with  your  poor,  hapless  child !" 

The  firm  and  impressive  tone  of  the  old  man — 
perhaps,  too,  the  stout  medlar  stick — had  at  first 
struck  and  restrained  Jan  Staers.  He  listened 
with  an  air  of  disdain;   but  the  concluding  ro- 


72  THE   CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

proach  stung  him  to  ike  quick.  A  loud  sound, 
like  the  roar  of  a  lion,  rolled  from  his  throat,  as 
he  rushed  with  clenched  fists  at  the  old  man.  But 
before  he  could  reach  him,  Farmer  Torfs  ha<l 
Btepped  through  the  doorway,  and  found  himself 
in  the  village  street,  along  which  some  laborers 
were  passing  at  the  momont.  Jan  Staers  hurled 
some  parting  execrations  at  the  head  of  the  old 
man,  and  then  he  flung  his  door  to  with  such  vio- 
lence, that  a  large  piece  was  broken  off  and  fell 
upon  the  floor. 

At  a  little  distance  stood  Luke  and  Clara,  anx- 
iously watching.  The  sounds  of  strife  had  already 
filled  them  with  anguish  and  terror;  and  when 
they  saw  the  old  man  approach  them,  his  face  pale 
with  suppressed  passion,  his  eyes  gleaming,  and 
his  fists  clenched,  they  could  scarcely  summon  up 
strength  enough  to  ask  him,  amid  their  tears,  how 
he  had  succeeded. 

"Let  me  be  quiet,"  murmured  he ;  "I  am  chafed 
— I  am  trembling  all  over — my  blood  is  boiling  iu 
my  veins.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  be  ill :  an  apoplexy, 
perhaps !  Alas !  my  dear  children,  no  hope  now 
for  you :  all  is  over — forever — forever." 

Luke  followed  liis  father,  moaning  and  tearing 
his  hair ;  Clara  walked  beside  them,  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  apron. 

A  few  monients  later,  the  door  of  the  stone  farm- 
house was  thrown  open  again,  and  Jan  Staers 
issued  from  it.  He  ran,,  with  hurried  steps  and 
•uhintelligibla  gestures,  along^.the  .village  street, 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  73 

and  disappeared  in  the  pine  wood  wliicli  lay  along 
the  road  that  was  cut  out  of  the  hill-side.  He  was 
on  his  way  to  the  town. 


chaptp:r  yi. 


Poor  Luke  wandered  back  to  the  courtyard  of 
his  father's  house.  ITow  he  stood  still  at  the  corner 
of  the  barn  and  looked  out  vacantly  upon  the 
meadow,  toward  the  spot  whence  resounded  the 
heavy  blows  of  a  hatchet;  then  he  turned  sud- 
denly round  and  walked  a  few  steps,  then  stood 
still  again,  crossed  his  arms,  stamped  on  the 
ground  with  spite,  and  at  length  made  toward  the 
door  of  the  stable  mechanically,  as  if  he  were 
walking  in  his  sleep.  Here  he  moved  slowly 
toward  the  cows,  placed  his  hands  on  their  necks 
in  a  kind  of  dreamy  abstraction,  and  looked  at 
them  as  if  he  would  have  told  them  all  his  piteous 
sorrow;  then,  still  slowly  and  sadly,  he  shook 
some  hay  into  the  horse's  rack,  and  finally  stalked, 
m  moody  silence,  into  the  cottage  where  his  mo- 
ther was  busied  in  pouring  water  from  a  boiling 
kettle  into  the  coffee-pot. 

Luke  let  himself  sink  listlessly  upon  a  wooden 
bench  in  the  chimney-corner.  He  was  quite 
crushed  down  with  dejection;  his  limbs  hung 
nerveless  and  loose  about  him,  and  his  whole  body 
seemed  shrunk  in  and  bent  together.    He  kept 


74  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

bis  eyes  fixed  on  the  smouldering  fire  in  a  mourn-, 
ful  reverie. 

Mother  Beth  >vas  a  little  plump  dame,  with 
cheeks  still  blooming,  and  large,  open  blue  eyes, 
the  sweetness  and  animation  of  whose  glance 
betokened  the  gentle  goodness  of  her  heart. 
Although  she  now  and  then  shook  her  head  in 
compassion  whenever  her  eye  fell  on  her  discon- 
solate son,  a  gentle  smile  played  on  her  lips,  and 
it  was  remarkable  that  she  did  not  seem  to  think 
the  misery  of  Luke  quite  so  extremely  crushing  as 
the  young  man's  dejection  would  have  led  one  to 
suppose  it. 

The  coffee  being  made,  she  set  the  pot  among 
the  hot  embers,  drew  forward  her  stool  and  her 
spinning-wheel,  and  soon  the  flax  was  running 
nimbly  between  her  fingers.  Then,  with  the  hum 
of  her  wheel  as  an  accompaniment  and  support, 
she  began,  in  a  soothing  tone: 

"Luke,  lad,  you  sit  there  like  a  body  who  has 
done  something  very  bad.  Come,  come,  drive  it 
all  out  of  your  head ;  it  isn't  as  bad  as  you  think." 

"I^ot  so  bad?"  sighed  the  young  peasant,  with- 
out moving  a  muscle.  "Why  then  were  we  all  so 
merry  here  yesterday?  and  why  did  you,  mother, 
make  me  almost  a  fool  with  happiness  by  showing 
me  all  those  beautiful  things?  Haven't  you  put 
back  in  the  chest  there  all  the  things  you  meant 
to   give   Clara  as  a  wedding-gift?      Oh,  mother, 

I  was   so   happy — so    happy and  I  thought  I 

could  look  so  far  on  into  my  life,  and  all  waa  so 


THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  75 

good,  SO  bright,  so  heavenly  beautiful — and  you, 
mother,  were  you  not  obliged  to  wipe  away  the 
tears  from  your  eyes,  because  we  were  all  so 
beside  ourselves  with  gladness?  —  There  was 
father  giving  me  advice,  and  making  me  wise — 
how  I  was  to  farm  so  as  to  get  on.  Oh,  Clara, 
poor  Clara!  When  I  told  her  that  you  would 
be  her  dear  mother,  she  fairly  gave  way;  she 
burst  into  tears  of  jo}^,  and  was  almost  out  of  her 
senses  with  happiness.  And  now  she  is  sitting 
there  again  alone  within  the  silent  walls  of  the 
stone  farm-house,  and  is  tearing  her  hair,  perhaps, 
in  utter  hopelessness." 

Some  more  painful  emotion  here  smote  his  heart; 
he  turned  half  round,  and,  wringing  his  hands  in 
desperation,  he  sobbed  out — 

"And  to  dream  about  it  a  whole  night  long — 
not  to  be  able  to  close  one's  eyes  for  joy — to  jump 
up  a  hundred  times  and  turn  one's  eyes  to  the  win- 
dow to  see  if  the  sun  of  the  long  hoped-for  day  was 
not  yet  up — to  feel  one's  heart  flutter,  to  sing,  to 
dance,  to  lose  one's  senses  quite  in  an  intoxication 
of  joy  and  hope — and  then,  after  all,  to  feci  a  cold 
knife  run  through  one's  heart,  and  to  hear  father 
say,  *  1^0  hope  more !  it  is  all  over — all  over  for- 
ever!' Ah,  look  you,  mother,  you  may  believe  It 
or  not,  but  it  is  enough  to  kill  one  outright!" 

"Luke,  Luke,  you  are  such  a  stifi>necked,  obsti- 
nate lad!"  said  his  mother,  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 
"  Why  don't  you  hearken  to  what  I  say  to  you  ? 
Let  father's  anger  cool  down  a  bit;  things  will  go 


76  THE   CUKSB   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

all  right  then.  If  you  were  in  his  place  you  would, 
perhaps,  be  a  great  deal  more  angry  than  he  is. 
Only  think — ^lie  goes  to  Jan  Staers,  to  make  him 
an  offer  which  was,  perhaps,  rather  imprudent 
and  rash  on  our  part.  He  offers  to  save  him, 
and  to  make  Clara  happy ;  and  he  gets  for  answer, 
*  fXi'ovellins:  old  hunks,  hideous  old  beetle !'  he  is 
threatened  to  have  his  head  beaten  against  the 
wall,  and  to  be  kicked  out  of  doors !  Ah,  Luke, 
he  is  still  your  father,  and  you  ought  surely  to  feel 
that  he  has  good  cause  to  be  angry,  yes,  to  be  very 
excessively  angry !" 

''Alas,  dear  mother,  I  know  that  well  enough!" 
exclaimed  Luke,  dejectedly;  "but  is  it  Clara's 
fault  that  God  has  given  her  such  a  father?" 

"Truly,  child,"  sighed  the  old  dame,  "of  a 
surety,  it  is  not  her  fault;  but  everybody  must 
bear  his  own  cross.  If  I  had  been  able  to  forecast 
all  this,  you  should  never  have  made  acquaintance 
with  Clara." 

"Why,  father  says  that  Jan  Staers  has  been 
given  to  drink  these  twenty  years;  so  you  have 
known  it  well  enough  all  the  time." 

"I  let  myself  be  seduced,  Luke — that  is  just  the 
word.  I  have  always  loved  Clara,  long  before  you 
did,  lad.  It  was  always  such  a  good  lass  from  the 
cradle — so  pious,  so  industrious,  and  so  unfor- 
tunate!— more  by  token  she  was  so  neat  and 
clean,  and  had  such  pretty  black  eyes.  Look 
you,  Luke,  that  is  the  way  with  mothers :  you 
could  scarcely  both  of  you  run  alone,  when  I  said 


THE   CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  7T 

to  myself  in  my  heart,  she  wouldn't  make  such  a 
Dad  wife  for  my  Luke  !" 

Her  voice  had  gradually  hecome  more  soft  and 
gentle;  as  she  uttered  the  last  words,  the  kind- 
hearted  old  dame  put  her  finger  to  her  eyes,  and 
took  away  two  blinding  tears. 

The  youth  sprang  from  his  bench,  seized  her 
hand,  and  exclaimed — 

"Oh,  dear,  kind  mother,  thank  you,  thank  you  ! 
and  you  think  so  still,  don't  you  ?" 

"That  is  to  say,  Luke,  after  a  time,  yes." 

"What  do  you  mean ? — after  a  time ?" 

"Why,  father  is  master;  we  must  have  no  other 
thought  than  his.  The  thorn  which  has  pierced 
him  will  not  be  very  soon  got  out.  We  must  wait, 
child." 

Luke  returned  to  his  bench  in  great  discontent, 
and  muttered,  in  an  irritated  tone — 

"Wait — ^vait!  and  in  the  mean  time  to  know 
that  she  is  unhappy,  and  has  nothing  in  the  wide 
world  but  terror  and  suffering!  Wait — and  fall 
sick,  and  die  of  vexation !" 

"Look  you,  Luke,  if  you  won't  have  patience, 
I  can't  help  it.  You  must  not  put  the  cart  before 
the  horse,  lad.  There  are  a  good  many  days  in 
the  year;  and  if  it  is  bad  weather  one  day,  perhaps 
the  sun  will  shine  out  the  next." 

"And  father,  who  is  so  angry  that  1  dare  not 
look  at  him !  I  must  not  mention  the  subject.  It 
ia  all  over,  all  over  forever,  he  says." 

"Yes,  yes,  he  may  say  all  that  just  now,  yoii 


78  ^    THE    CURSE   OF   THE   \aLLAQE. 

see,  just  to  give  his  anger  a  little  vent;  but  I,  who 
have  dreamed  for  fifteen  years  long  that  Clara 
would  be  my  daughter,  I  shall  not  let  the  notion 
drop  quite  so  suddenly.  We  must  give  in  a  little 
bit  at  first,  Luke  ;  your  father  is  master ;  we  must 
not  say  a  word  against  his  will.  You  just  let  me 
alone :  I  will  contrive  to  feel  my  way  with  a  little 
hint,  and  bring  the  subject  up  again.  Your  father 
has  a  right  good  heart;  his  anger  will  lessen  with 
time  and  patience." 

Luke  was  just  going  to  thank  his  mother  for  lx<-.r 
tender  consolation,  but  at  that  moment  Father 
Torfs  entered  the  house,  and  with  one  hand  placed 
his  hatchet  carefully  on  the  ground,  while  with  the 
other  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 
His  countenance  was  severe,  but  calm ;  his  greet- 
ing brief,  but  gracious  withal. 

He  took  his  place  at  the  table  without  saying 
another  word.  The  good  dame  placed  the  coffee- 
pot and  the  bread  on  the  table,  and  made  Luke 
a  sign  that  he  should  draw  near  and  eat  with 
them. 

Father  Torfs  was  evidently  regarded  with  great 
respect  and  even  awe  by  his  household,  for  his 
appearance  alone  had  effected  an  entire  revolution 
in  Luke's  frame  of  mind.  The  lad  seemed  to 
conquer  his  sa^lness,  and  came  to  the  table  with 
his  eyes  cast  down  and  an  air  of  timidity;  he  sat 
down  opposite  his  father,  and,  in  spite  of  hiinseli', 
it  may  be,  ate  and  drank,  that  he  might  not  vex 
him.     An  oppressive  silence  reigned  in  the  little 


THE    CURSE   OF    THE   VILLAGE.  79 

room,  until  the  old  man  said,  with  a  calm  and 
measured  voice — 

"  Luke,  I  told  you  not  to  work  this  mornin«!;, 
because  I  knew  well  enough  that  your  head 
would  not  be  fit  for  it,  and  I  wanted  to  let  your 
sorrow  pass  over  a  little.  But  now  you  must 
lend  a  hand  to  load  the  beech-wood  on  the  cart. 
To-morrow  you  will  drive  over  to  the  town,  and 
deliver  it  at  the  house  of  our  landlord." 

"Very  well,  father;  I  will  do  all  that  you  wish," 
answered  the  youth,  submissively,  but  with  a  touch 
of  sorrow  in  his  voice. 

His  mother  had  risen  up  to  reach  something; 
she  stood  at  the  window  a  moment,  looking  up 
the  village  street.  Her  manner  indicated  curiosity 
and  anxiety. 

"Take  courage,  Luke,"  said  his  father;  "it 
pains  me  much  to  be  forced  to  see  you  sufter. 
I  was  once  young  myself,  and  I  know  that  it  is  a 
bitter  thing  to  be  deceived  in  one's  hopes ;  but  I 
cannot  help  it.  You  must,  by  degrees,  drive  it  out 
of  your  head — " 

Suddenly  they  heard  a  noise  as  of  confused 
voices,  with  loud  and  merry  peals  of  laughter; 
it  seemed  to  come  from  the  street  of  the  vil- 
lage. 

"  'Tis  the  laborers  and  lads  of  farmer  Daelmans, 
who  are  coming  from  the  field  with  the  last  cart- 
load of  potatoes,"  observed  the  old  man ;  "  I  saw 
them  at  a  distance  just  now,  hanging  the  cart 
with  branches  of  green.     This  evening  they  keep 


80  THE    CtTRSE    OF   THE  VILLAGE. 

the  feast  of  cakes.  They  are  merry,  sure  enough, 
Betli." 

The  good  wife  turned  round.  On  her  counte- 
nance one  could  read  fear  and  deep  sadness. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied;  "there  is  a  great 
crowd  at  the  door  of  Jan  Staers,  bijt  I  can't  see 
what  is  going  on.  The  rural  guard  is  there  with 
his  sabre  drawn !" 

*' Heavens!"  shrieked  Luke,  springing  up,  "what 
can  it  be?  Clara,  Clara!"  He  ran  to  the  door, 
and  was  about  to  leave  the  Iwuse;  but  his  father 
anticipated  him,  and  said,  with  a  gesture  of  com- 
mand— 

"  You  stay  here,  Luke :  what  happens  there  is 
no  concern  of  ours." 

Rushing  to  the  window,  the  poor  lad  pressed 
his  face  against  the  glass,  trying  to  make  out 
what  was  going  on  among  the  crowd  of  villagers 
in  front  of  the  stone  farm-house.  The  sight  of 
the  drawn  sabre  of  the  rural  guard,  gleaming  over 
the  heads  of  the  lookers-on,  made  him  tremble  a  a 
though  he  were  quailing  beneath  some  terrible 
disaster. 

"Good  heavens!  can  Jan  Staers  have  com- 
mitted any  crime?"  cried  he,  in  a  tone  of  deepest 
dejection.  "  Can  they  be  fetching  him  to  put  him 
in  prison?  Alas,  alai!  this  is  all  that  was  want- 
ing to  complete  my  uiisei^." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  the  father;  "I  think  I 
know  what  it  is.  The  officers  of  justice  are  come 
out  of  the  town  to  seize  his  goods;  the  rural  guard 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE,         81 

is  keeping  the  people  awaj  from  the  door.  Look, 
now  he  is  driving  the  lads  back,  because  tliey 
were  coming  too  near." 

This  movement  allowed  them  to  see  within  the 
circle  of  villagers.  All  at  once  a  shrill,  piercing 
cry  of  despair  forced  its  way  from  Luke's  deepest 
heart. 

*'  Oh !"  cried  he,  "  there  is  Clara  sitting  against 
the  wall,  near  the  door,  on  a  sack  of  straw;  she  is 
holding  her  hands  before  her  eyes ;  she  is  weep- 
ing; they  have  turned  her  out  into  the  street. 
Oh,  misery  of  miseries !  they  are  laughing  all 
around  her;  they  are  making  a  jest  of  her  degra- 
dation— of  her  unhappiness !  Father,  father,  let 
me  go;  for  God's  sake,  let  me  go !" 

The  old  man  bolted  and  locked  the  door,  and 
put  the  key  into  the  pocket  of  his  blouse. 

"But,  tather,"  cried  Luke,  quite  beside  himself, 
"  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  and  unfeeling  ?  Clara, 
— oh,  the  poor  child  ! — she  is  sitting  yonder  in  the 
open  air,  without  a  shelter!  she  knows  not  where 
to  go.  She  is  weeping  bitter  tears,  I  see  them — • 
oh,  and  listen,  they  are  laughing!  She  must  — 
tender,  innocent  lamb  as  she  is — she  must  put  up 
with  this  disgrace,  and  remain  sitting  there,  the 
scoft'  and  jest  of  the  whole  village!  Have  you 
then  lost  all  feeling,  father?" 

"  It  is  very  sad  ;  but — " 

"But,  but,  father,"  howled  Luke,  tearing  his  hair 
violently,  "  you  don't  know  what  you  are  doing ! 
you  are  allowing  your  son's  wife  to  be  insulted!" 
P 


82  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

"Your  wife?" 

"  Yes,  she  shall  be  my  wife,  even  if  I  die  with 
vexation  at  causing  you  so  much  displeasure ;  she 
shall  be  my  wife,  I  tell  you  that!" 

And,  terrified  at  his  own  boldness,  he  ran  with 
streaming  eyes  to  his  father,  raised  his  hand,  and, 
laying  his  head  on  his  bosom,  said,  with  a  beseech- 
ing, imploring  voice — 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  for  daring  to  speak  so ;  but, 
for  Jill  that,  it  is  truth.  She  is  suffering;  she  is 
unhappy.  Oh,  let  me  go,  that  I  may  rescue  her 
from  that  terrible  degradation." 

"  To  fetch  her,  and  bring  her  here?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  while  he  muttered, 
in  perplexity  and  hesitation — 

*'And  her  father!  her  father?" 

Dame  Torfs  had  not  yet  had  time  to  put  in  a 
word.  Although  the  piteous  lamentations  of  her 
son  cut  deep  into  her  mother's  heart,  she  had 
hitherto  restrained  her  emotion,  and  listened  in 
silence.  But  now  she  burst  suddenly  into  tears, 
and  said,  with  a  deep  groan — 

"  Look  you,  Torfs,  you  are  really  too  cruel ; 
3^ou  cannot  stand  out  any  longer.  You  can't 
drive  our  Luke  quite  into  his  grave;  and  this 
luckless  lamb, — oh,  the  poor  dear ! — sitting  there 
before  everybody,  under  the  blue  heaven,  and 
weeping !  Can  you  look  on  in  cold  blood  and  see 
her  there — like  a  stone  without  a  soul  or  a  heart  ? 
Yes,  you  have  more  sense  than  we  have ;  I  know 
that;  but,  after  all, perhaps  it  is  better  to  be  some- 


THE   CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  83 

what  more  merciful,  come  of  it  what  will.  We 
are,  after  all.  Christian  folk,  Torfs;  don't  you 
know  that?" 

"Oh,  father,  do  listen  to  mother;  let  me  fetch 
Clara?" 

The  old  man  seemed  quite  overcome  by  the 
rebuke  of  his  good  wife. 

"  One  moment,"  muttered  he,  with  his  finger  on 
his  forehead,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
*'  one  moment;  let  me  think — " 

He  hastily  took  the  key  from  his  pocket,  and 
opened  the  door. 

"  You  are  making  me  commit  a  great  folly," 
said  he ;  "  but,  in  the  name  of  God,  then,  go  and 
bring  Clara  here." 

Luke  and  his  mother  rushed  out  at  the  door, 
and  ran  in  haste  toward  the  throng  of  idle  gos- 
sips who  were  gathered  around  the  door  of  Jan 
Staers's  dwelling.  The  young  man  made  his  way 
by  main  force  through  the  crowd,  thrust  back 
some  laughers  with  angry  impetuosity,  seized  the 
hand  of  the  maiden,  made  her  stand  up,  and  said 
to  her — 

"  Come,  come,  my  mother  is  here ;  she  is  come 
to  fetch  you;  you  must  not  stay  here.  I  w^ill 
take  care  that  your  clothes  are  brought  to  you. 
Cheer  up,  Clara  dear;  Luke  will  never  forsake 
you." 

Mother  Torfs  had  already  grasped  the  other 
Land  of  the  weeping  damsel,  and  was  now  lead- 
ing her  along  the  village  street  toward  her  cot- 


84  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

tage,  ritijring  all  manner  of  soothing,  comforting 
words  by  the  way.  Luke  remained  at  the  stone 
farm-house,  and  made  there  a  terrible  commotion 
among  those  on  whose  face  he  had  surprised  a 
smile  of  derision. 

"  What!"  shouted  he;  "are  you  wicked  enough 
to  take  pleasure  in  another  man's  affliction?  You 
see  the  poor  Clara  —  goodness,  loveliness,  kind- 
ness itself^ — pining  in  tears,  and  you  stand  by  and 
laugh !  Fie  on  you  I  I  am  ashamed  that  you  are 
men." 

"^N'owcome,  Luke,  don't  you  get  up  any  bad 
blood,  lad,"  said  a  burly  peasant.  "  We  are  not 
laughing  at  Clara's  misfortune;  far  from  that; 
but  surely  you  would  not  have  us  make  a  long 
face  because  the  proud,  drunken  scoundrel,  her 
father,  has  got  his  deserts,  would  you  ?  Jan  Staers 
has  planted  his  nose  well  in  the  mud  now.  It 
serves  him  right;  he  has  long  deserved  it.  And 
now  the  village  will  be  clear  of  the  filthy  beast." 

"It  is  wonderful,"  remarked  another  villager; 
"  I  met  him  this  morning  there  away  in  the  dell : 
he  had  a  whole  sackful  of  five-franc  pieces  with 
him,  and  said  that  he  was  going  off  to  pay  his 
rent." 

"  Pay  his  rent!"  said  a  third,  with  a  laugh ;  " as 
if  there  were  not  too  many  public-houses  on  the 
road  for  that!  I'll  bet  any  thing  he  is  sitting  now 
in  the  '  Spotted  Cow,'  so  fuddled  and  blinded  by 
drink,  that  he  remembers  nothing  of  God  or  his 
commandments." 


IRE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  85 

"Silence,  friends,  silence!"  said  Luke,  with 
angry  impatience;  "who  among  you  will  lend 
me  a  hand  ?  I  should  like  to  stow  away  the  bed- 
ding and  the  wearing  apparel  in  our  barn.'* 

Three  or  four  young  lads  sprang  forward,  and 
expressed  their  readiness  to  help  him  in  any 
way. 

"When  Mother  Beth  reached  her  house,  leading 
Clara  by  the  hand,  her  husband  was  no  longer  to 
be  seen ;  she  thought  that  he  was  gone  out  into 
the  back  court,  and  paid  little  attention  to  his 
absence.  So,  leading  the  weeping  girl  to  the 
bench  by  the  hearth,  she  made  her  sit  down,  and 
said — 

"Clara,  child,  it  is  a  sad  job;  but  you  must 
not  despair.  We  shall  be  able  to  help  you  a  little 
bit." 

"Alas!  for  me  it  is  no  matter,"  said  the  girl, 
with  a  .voice  interrupted  by  sobs ;  "I  can  w^ork, 
find  can  easily  earn  enough  to  get  a  bit  of  bread ; 
but  father,  oh,  poor  father,  what  will  become  of 
1iim  ?  Where  will  he  sleep  ?  ^o  dwelling  more 
— to  be  turned  out  in  the  street  like  a  beggar! 
Oh !  Mother  Beth,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
us,  perhaps,  if  we  both  had  died  a  good  Christian 
death !" 

"Child,  child,  you  must  not  wish  any  thing  of 
that  kind,"  remonstrated  the  good  dame,  in  a  tone 
of  rebuke  and  sorrow. 

"And  only  yesterday  so  full  of  joy!"  sobbed 
Clara,  lost  in  -h^r  own'  thoughts ;  '^^  to  iull,.  as  it 


SQ  1HE    CURSE    OF    THE   VILLAGE. 

were,  out  of  heaven,  and  tumble  down  into  bell 
— into  disgrace,  into  poverty,  into  hopelessness  ! 
Oh !  oh !  And  my  father,  my  poor  father,  what 
will  he  do  dow?" 

"Yes,  truly,  Clara,"  answered  Mother  Torfs, 
shaking  her  head  slowly;  "that  is  indeed  the 
worst  of  all.  "We  \vould  gladly  take  care  of  you, 
and  put  you  up  a  little  bed  in  the  attic  until  some- 
thing else  turned  up ;  but  your  father — ^}'ou  see, 
child,  that  is  quite  another  thing.  I  won't  have 
him  in  my  house;  and  Torfs  would  rather 
leave  the  house,  and  be  off,  than  —  how  shall  I 
say  it?  —  than  sleep  under  the  same  roof  with 
such  a  savage.  You  must  consider,  Clara,  that, 
when  your  flither  is  drunk,  he  is  a  very  awkward 
man  to  deal  with.  lie  would  turn  the  house  up- 
side downi  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  rave 
and  swear,  and  perhaps  call  my  good  man  ugly 
names  again.  Torfs,  too,  is  rather  short  and 
quick  in  his  way;  he  -would  not  put  up  with  it 
long;  and — "who  knows?  —  they  might  do  each 
other  a  harm  in  their  passion.  iTo,  no ;  Jan 
Staers  must  never  set  foot  over  this  threshold;  it 
cannot  be." 

"  0  Lord,  help  me !  I  know  that  w^ell,  Mother 
Beth,"  pleaded  the  poor  girl ;  "  but,  for  God's 
sake,  doii't  say  it.  It  cuts  me  to  the  lieai-t.  To 
know  that  my  poor  father  is  everybody's  scoff;  to 
hear  him  jeered  for  his  misfortune;  to  see  people 
clap  their  hands  for  joy  because  we  are  turned  out 
of  our  bouse  —  and  no  means,  no  hope,  of  bet- 


THE    CUtlSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE  87 

tering  our  lot  I — it  must  go  on  and  on  to,  until, 
perhaps,  it  ends  with  something  awful.  Oh, 
Mother  Torfs,  say  now  yourself,  Avould  it  not  be 
better  that  God  should  take  us  both  out  of  the 
world  ?" 

"Drunkenness  is  indeed  a  fearful  evil,"  nmt- 
tered  the  old  dame,  pensively.  "And  certain  it 
is,  that  the  vile  habit  of  gin-drinking  is  gaining 
ground  in  our  villages  like  a  contagious  sickness. 
In  our  neighborhood  it  is  not  so  very  bad  yet; 
but  there,  away  in  that  direction,  toward  Kempen 
— there  the  men  run  in  crowds  to  make  their 
wives  and  children  miserable,  and  to  hang  the 
beggar's  wallet  round  their  necks  in  the  end — " 

She  was  interrupted  in  her  discourse  by  the  en- 
trance of  Luke,  who  went  up  straight  to  the  w^eep- 
ing  girl,  took  her  hand,  and  said  to  her,  with  an 
accent  of  consolation — 

"  Oh,  Clara  dear,  don't  cry  any  more ;  things 
will  turn  out  much  better  than  w^e  think.  I  have 
put  the  chest  and  the  clothes  in  the  barn,  and 
spread  out  the  beds  in  a  corner  on  some  straw. 
Your  father  w^ill  be  able  to  sleep  there  till  to- 
morrow morning ;  and  then  mother  will  put  in  a 
good  word  with  father  to  help  you  out  of  your  dif- 
ficulties. And  after  all,  you  see,  it  will  be  all 
the  same,  whatever  turns  up.  I  shall,  in  any  case, 
be  glad  to  see  you  stay  here." 

"So  !  wdiat  are  you  talking  about  there,  Luke?" 
interposed  his  mother,  in  a  tone  of  rebuke.  "Jan 
Staers  to  sleep  in   our  barn  ?     On  my  word,  J 


88  T^E    CURSE    OF  THE   VILLAGE. 

think  you  have  lost  your  senses.  Suppose  the 
whim  takes  him  to  smoke  a  pipe  ?  And  then  that 
infernal  invention  of  phosphorus  matches — in 
the  straw  !  We  should  have  house,  and  barn,  and 
all  burnt  to  ashes.  Don't  speak  of  it,  for  God's 
^ake,  before  your  father." 

"But  where  is  father?"  asked  the  lad,  looking 
round  in  all  directions. 

"Indeed  I  don't  know.  When  I  came  back 
with  Clara  he  was  gone,  and  I  have  not  seen  him 
since." 

"Good  heavens!  he  is  vexed,  perhaps." 

"Possible  enough,  my  boy;  you  have  said  many 
things  too,  look  you,  which  were  rather  strong. 
And  you  know  of  old,  your  father  will  be  treated 
with  due  respect." 

"But,  mother,"  said  Luke,  with  a  mournful 
voice,  "  I  do  honor  father  all  I  can ;  I  love  him 
and  look  up  to  him  for  his  goodness  and  his 
wisdom;  but  how  can  I  help  it,  if  my  heart 
will  run  away  with  me  in  my  vexation — " 

He  ceased  suddenly,  for  at  this  moment  hi3 
father  entered  the  house.  The  young  man  went 
up  to  him,  andsaid,  in  a  supplicating  tone — 

"  Oh,  father,  you  are  not  vexed  with  me  ?  You 
must  bear  with  me  a  little,  and  forgive  me;  I 
didn't  well  know  what  I  was  saying." 

"Sit  you  down!"   said  old  Torfs,  with  an  im- 
perative voice  and  gesture,  "and  listen  al!  of  you 
with  attention  ;  I  don't  like  to  be  interrupted." 
.   Luke  and  his  mother  obeved  in  silence ;  and  aa 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  89 

if  tlicy  guessed,  from  the  old  man's  tone  of  voice, 
that  he  was  going  to  say  something  very  important, 
they  fastened  their  eyes  on  him  with  intense  curi- 
osity and  anxiety. 

"You  think  that  I  am  vexed  with  you,  Luke  ?'* 
said  his  father.  "  You  are  wrong.  I  feel  too  much 
pity  for  your  trouble,  and  my  one  wish  is  to  see 
you  happy.  While  3'ou  and  your  mother  were 
gone  to  fetch  Clara,  I  thought  over  the  course  we 
must  take.  Look  here  what  I  said  to  myself: — 
We  all  love  Clara,  and  it  grieves  us  much  that 
she  must  suffer — the  innocent  child  !  If  she  were 
alone,  the  thing  would  be  soon  done ;  she  should 
never  shed  another  tear  about  it,  for  I  would  not 
allow  it.  But  we  have  no  right  to  separate  father 
and  daughter ;  where  she  is,  there  he  must  be  too. 
Jan  Staers  shall  not  set  foot  in  my  house  !  I 
have  hit  upon  another  plan ;  and  though  it  may 
cost  me  some  money,  I  have  not  grudged  it,  in 
the  hope  that  the  God  who  is  above  us  will  re- 
ward me.  There  behind,  near  the  brook,  is  a  little 
laborer's  cottage,  belonging  to  our  bailiff  Putkop. 
I  have  hii*ed  it  for  three  months ;  you  must  move 
the  bedding  and  things  there ;  Clara  can  live  there 
with  her  father — " 

Luke  made  a  movement  as  if  he  w^as  going  to 
speak ;  Clara  extended  her  hands  in  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment;  but  a  sign  from  the  old  man 
drove  the  words  back  into  their  mouths. 

"I  w^ill  make  one  last  effort,"  he  continued. 
"It  may  be  that  Jan  Staers's  misfortune  will  bring 

8*  ^ 


90  Til's   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

him  to  a  better  mind.  Clara,  you  will  tell  him  that 
I  mean  to  come  to  have  a  talk  with  him  to-mor- 
row forenoon ;  try  and  persuade  him  to  lay  aside 
his  pride,  and  to  look  at  things  as  they  really  are. 
If  he  will  accept  my  proposals,  and  fulfil  the  con- 
ditions I  mean  to  make,  then,  my  children,  nothing 
is  lost  yet,  and  all  that  we  were  dreaming  about 
yesterday  may  still  become  reality.  I  have  a  kind 
of  hope  that  all  will  go  right.  This  is  all  I  had  to 
say." 

Luke  aud  Clara  sprang  up  at  the  same  moment, 
and  seized,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  the  hands  of 
the  old  man.  The  maiden  murmured  some  unin- 
telligible words  of  thankfulness. 

"  Oh,  father,"  exclaimed  Luke  ;  "  an  angel  can- 
not be  better  or  kinder  than  you  are.  Thank  you, 
thank  you  !     How  can  I  repay  you  ?" 

"  Continue  to  be  virtuous,  Luke,"  answered  the 
old  man,  with  deep  emotion;  "and  when  I  am  old 
and  worn  out,  then  remember  how  I  have  loved 
you,  and  what  I  have  done  to  prove  my  love. 
And  you,  Clara,  if  God  is  so  good  to  us  as  to  give 
you  to  us  as  our  daughter,  love  your  new  mother, 
and  tend  her  with  care  to  the  end  of  her  days." 

The  girl  threw  her  arms  round  Mother  Beth's 
neck  with  a  cry  of  joy,  and  exclaimed — 

"  Oh,  if  I  am  doomed  never  to  see  you  again 
after  to-day,  I  shall  never  forget  all  your  good- 
ness. I  shall  remember  you  in  my  prayers,  that 
God  may  bless  you,  and  grant  you  a  long,  long 
life!" 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.    '     91 

Rousing  himself  from  the  effects  of  his  emotion, 
the  old  Torfs  then  said — 

"  Come,  don't  let  us  lose  any  time.  Beth,  bring 
with  you  all  that  is  necessary  for  a  good  cleaning 
out:  a  bucket,  a  broom,  and  all  the  rest.  Go  with 
Chira,  and  touch  up  the  cottage  a  bit,  that  it  may 
look  a  little  tidy.  Carry  over  what  is  wanted  for 
housekeeping.  The  rural  guard  will  stay  close  to 
the  stone  farm-house,  to  show  Jan  Staers  his  new 
abode.  Go  you,  Luke,  take  the  wheelbarrow  and 
carry  off  the  bedding.  There  is  the  key.  I  must 
go  again  to  say  a  word  to  the  bailiff  Putkop. 
Anyhow,  be  sharp;  for  evening  will  draw  in  very 
soon." 

When  he  saw  that  each  was  in  movement  to 
carry  out  his  injunctions,  the  old  man  stepped  out 
at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 


It  was  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when 


Farmer  Torfs  closed  the  back  door  of  his  cottage 
behind  him,  and  went  along  the  field  toward  the 
new  dwelling  of  Jan  Staers.  He  had  scarcely 
gone  a  good  bow-shot,  when  he  saw  Clara  in  the 
distance,  coming  toward  him.  The  girl  seemed 
to  him  quite  sprightly  and  full  of  energy,  for  she 
held  her  head  upright,  and  walked  on  with  a  li^ht, 
firm  step.   -    .  . 


92  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE 

This  sight  gladdened  the  old  man,  because  it 
encouraged  him  to  hope  for  a  favorable  result 
from  his  eftbrts ;  and  so  it  was  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips  that  he  saw  the  maiden  come  up  to 
him. 

*'Well  now,  Clara,  has  your  father  borne  his 
misfortune  patiently?"  he  asked.  "Is  he  become 
more  reasonable?" 

"It  is  quite  wonderful,"  answered  the  girl.  "A 
great  change  has  come  over  father.  It  was  not 
late  last  evening  when  he  came  back  from  the 
town;  and  he  could  not  have  drunk  any  thing,  for 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  led  by  the  rural  guard  to 
our  new  house  w^ithout  a  w^ord  of  opposition.  He 
spoke  to  me  a  few  calm  and  affectionate  words, 
advising  me  to  go  to  rest.  Little  did  I  sleep, 
however,  for  I  heard  that  my  father  was  awake, 
and  was  pacing  up  and  down  his  room.  When 
I  rose  and  came  down-stairs,  I  found  him  sitting 
in  a  corner,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast, 
and  looking  sadly  down  on  the  ground.  I  became 
pale,  and  uttered  a  slight  groan  as  I  took  him  by 
the  hand;  but  he  consoled  me  with  great  tender- 
ness, and  asked  my  forgiveness  for  all  the  wrongs  he 
said  he  had  done  me." 

"It  is  indeed  wonderful.  At  this  rate  he  will 
mend." 

"He  declared,  again  and  again,  that  he  would 
never  more  enter  a  public-house,  never  taste  an- 
other drop  of  strong  diink  —  not  a  single  drop 
more!    He  takes  his  lot  very  submissively,  aiid 


THE    CUnSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  93 

says  that  he  will  go  out  to  work  as  a  clay-laborer 
to  earn  us  a  living." 

"And  do  you  think  that  he  really  and  truly 
means  it?" 

"  Certainly :  there  is  no  reason  to  doubt  it.  Ho 
has  borrowed  a  spade  from  the  shoemaker;  and, 
since  an  early  hour  this  morning,  he  has  been  busy 
digging  the  little  bit  of  ground  behind  our  cottage. 
Ah,  Father  Torfs,  I  ought  to  lament  over  our  mis- 
fortune and  ruin,  ought  I  not?  But  I  cannot; 
you  see  I  am  so  gay,  so  happy,  that  I  could  jump 
into  the  air  for  joy.  Now  my  father  will  drink  no 
more !  If  we  were  as  poor  and  bare  as  the  stones, 
that  would  still  be  a  great  happiness  to  me.  And 
if  we  both  go  out  to  work,  we  may,  perhaps,  manage 
to  earn  enough  to  pay  the  rent  of  our  cottage  and 
get  on  in  a  small  way.  I  feel  so  much  energy — 1 
can't  tell  you  how  nmch.  If  I  did  not  fear  it  was 
wrong,  I  should  thank  God  with  all  my  heart  for 
having  cast  us  into  such  a  deep  of  misfortune !" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  thoughtfully,  and 
muttered  to  himself — 

"  Hum,  hum  !  it  is  rather  sudden !" 

Then,  turning  to  Clara,  he  said — 

"  So,  then,  he  has  said  that  he  does  not  mean  to 
drink  any  more  ?  That  he  means  to  go  out  as  ti 
day-laborer  ?  It  is  a  very  good  resolve,  and  it  is 
just  the  thing  I  want  to  talk  over  with  him." 

The  girl  pointed  forward  with  her  finger. 

"  Look,  there  behind  the  hedge  is  father,  busy 
digging,"  said  she. 


94  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

"Have  you  let  him  know  I  am  coming?'* 

"Yes;  he  will  listen  to  yon  with  respect;  he  haa 
promised  me." 

"  INTow,  then,  Clara,  you  go  along  home  to  our 
mother,  and  wait  there  till  I  come  to  you;  I  must 
be  quite  alone  with  your  flither.  Courage,  lassie ! 
if  what  you  say  is  true,  we  will  all  go  to  church 
together  to  thank  God  for  his  mercy." 

The  maiden  turned  back  along  the  field-path 
with  slow  steps,  while  Father  Torfs  entered  the 
court-yard  of  the  little  cottage. 

When  Jan  Staers  saw  his  old  neighbor  coming, 
his  face  burned  with  a  fiery  crimson,  and  his  lips 
moved  with  a  peculiar  expression.  "Was  it  only 
shame  on  account  of  his  wretched  condition,  or 
was  it  also  a  bitter  vexation  of  soul  ?  This  con- 
jecture did  not  escape  the  old  man ;  but  it  made 
no  veiy  unfavorable  impression  on  him,  for  he 
could^well  understand  that  this  meeting  must 
be  humiliating  to  Clara's  father — quite  enough 
so  to  occasion  him  a  little  temporary  discom- 
posure. 

Jan  Staers  had  stuck  his  spade  in  the  ground  and 
left  oflf  his  digging.  While  muttering  a  sad  and 
somewhat  cold  greeting,  he  walked  with  Farmer 
Torfs  into  the  cottage.  Placing  a  chair  for  the 
old  man,  he  said,  with  an  emphatic  and  constrained 
voice — 

"Farmer  Torfs,  you  have  had  the  kindness  to 
provide  me  a  home ;  I  thank  you  on  behalf  of  my 
daughter." 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  95 

"On  behalf  of  your  claugliter!"  repeated  tlio 
old  man. 

"  Yes ;  for  certainly  you  would  not  have  done 
it  for  me." 

"Look  you,  neighbor,  you  must  not  look  at  it 
quite  in  that  light,"  remarked  the  other,  with  a 
firm  and  assured  voice.  "  I  admit  that  I  was  for 
some  time  very  angry  with  you;  for,  certainlj^,  it 
was  not  likely  I  could  look  on  in  cold  blood,  and 
see  you  thoughtlessly  wasting  your  inheritance 
and  rendering  your  daughter  wretched;  but,  be- 
lieve me,  if  you  will  only  get  the  better  of  your 
unhappy  vice,  and  say  farewell  forever  to  strong 
drink,  then  will  I  show  you  that  you  cannot  have 
a  better  friend  on  earth  than  me." 

"It  is  very  possible;  but  I  will  take  good  care 
that  I  will  not  eat  my  bread  out  of  any  man's 
hand,"  said  Jan  Staers,  with  a  sullen,  secret  emo- 
tion of  repressed  anger  and  jealous3\  "I  mean  to 
pay  the  rent  of  this  cottage ;  and  so  3'ou  shall  not 
have  to  bestow  an  alms  on  Jan  Staers." 

He  laid  a  marked  and  peevish  stress  on  the 
word  you,  as  if  to  show  that  no  assistance  he  might 
receive  from  any  other  person  would  humiliate 
him  so  deeply  as  the  idea  of  being  beholden  to 
Farmer  Torfs.  There  was  an  unfriendly  and 
quarrelsome  expression  in  the  tone  of  his  voice, 
in  the  very  sound  of  the  words. 

"Neighbor,  neighbor,"  said  the  old  man,  shak- 
ing his  head,  "pride  is  an  evil  counsellor.  I  had 
intended  making  you  again, a  proposal  which  has 


06  THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

no  other  end  in  view  than  the  happiness  of  \'Gnr 
daughter  and  your  own  welfare ;  but  I  see  clearly 
that  your  affliction  even  has  not  changed  you.  It 
is  a  great  grief  to  me ;  but,  after  all,  I  cannot  do 
what  is  impossible.     In  the  name  of  God,  then—-" 

He  stood  up  as  if  about  to  take  his  departi/7e, 
and  sighed  profoundly. 

"Poor  Clara!"  he  exclaimed. 

Jan  Staers  now  placed  his  hands  before  his  eyes 
and  began  to  weep  bitterly,  as  though  the  bending 
and  crushing  of  his  pride  had  affected  V.is  whole 
frame ;  his  limbs  moved  convulsively,  and  a  mourn- 
ful cry  issued  from  his  oppressed  bosom. 

Father  Torfs  looked  at  him  for  some  time  with- 
out speaking.  His  countenance  bore  an  expression 
of  deep  sympathy  and  compassion ;  he  hastened 
to  lay  his  hand  on  his  neighbor's  shoulder,  and 
said,  in  a  tone  of  consolation — 

"Now,  tian  Staers,  moderate  your  grief;  hear 
me  out ;  I  will  tell  you  what  I  wanted  to  propose 
to  you." 

"Alas  !  I  am  a  contemptible  rascal,  a  venomous 
reptile,  a  reprobate  abandoned  of  God !"  exclaimed 
Jan  Staers,  in  wild  despair.  "I  am  doomed  to 
perish.  I  shall  sink  down  into  hell,  and  burn 
there  forever  and  ever,  like  a  wretched  fiend  that 
I  am!  All  this  night  I  have  not  been  able  to 
fcleep ;  for,  for  the  first  time  these  many  years,  I 
had  drunk  nothing,  not  a  single  drop.  My  father, 
my  mother,  my  wife,  all  rose  out  of  their  graves 
and  atood  before  my  eyes;  they  reproached  me 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.         97 

with  my  disgraceful  conduct,  and  accused  me  of 
having  embittered  their  lives — of  being  the  cause 
of  their  premature  death — " 

"You  are  wandering  in  your  mind.  Don't  make 
3'ourself  out  more  guilty  than  you  really  are," 
murmured  the  old  Torfs,  gently. 

"/wander  in  my  mind!"  repeated  Jan  Staers, 
with  a  bitter  scoiF.  "Fifteen  long  years  I  have 
been  the  scandal  and  disgrace  of  the  whole  village, 
and  have  lived  like  a  beast.  I  have  wasted  the 
sweat  of  my  father's  brow,  and  the  inheritance  of 
my  child,  in  vile  debau^chery.  I  have  cursed,  and 
sworn,  and  blasphemed,  as  though  I  would  rise  up 
against  God  himself  out  of  the  deep  mire  of  my 
drunkenness.  Alas  !  I  have  received  the  care,  the 
love,  the  mournful  solicitude  of  Clara  w^ith  utter 
unfeelingness.  I  have  crushed  her  young  life 
under  heavy  shame ;  and,  as  her  sole  recompense, 
I  have  cast  her  down  upon  the  straw  of  poverty, 
into  an  abyss  of  frightful  degradation.  Damna- 
tion!  my  soul  is  lost — there  is  nothing  within  me 
but  a  loathsome  mass  of  brute  instincts,  of  selfish- 
ness, of  base  cowardice,  and  of  pride.  You  come 
to  offer  me  help — you  wish  to  make  my  Clara 
happy,  to  raise  her  in  tenderest  affection  out  of 
her  poverty  and  humiliation  —  and  I,  abominable 
monster  that  I  am,  I  am  not  able  to  command 
myself  so  far  as  to  feel  grateful  to  you.  Far  from 
that;  my  abject  soul  spurns  the  benefit  you  would 
confer,  and  chafes  that  your  kindness  degrades  it. 
Wretch  that  I  am  !  leave  me ;  I  am  not  deserving 

Q  9 


98  THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

of  your  goodness.  God  has  laid  his  curse  upon 
me !" 

The  old  Torfs  was  so  deeply  affected  by  the 
despairing  confession  of  Jan  Staers,  that  liis  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears  of  compassion.  lie  re- 
mained silent  for  a  short  time,  then  sat  down 
again  on  his  chair,  took  the  hand  of  his  neighbor 
sympathizingly,  and  said  to  him,  with  a  kind  and 
soothing  voice — 

"  Jan,  there  is  no  guilt  so  great  but  that  it  may 
be  done  away  by  true  repentance.  Although  I 
quite  enter  into  your  distress  of  mind,  I  am  filled 
with  extraordinary  pleasure  that  your  eyes  "are  at 
last  opened  to  your  past  sinful  conduct.  It  is  a 
great  gain.  Let  me  now  ask  you  a  few  ques- 
tions :  we  shall  perhaps  soon  get  at  some  happy 
conclusion  of  all  your  trouble.  Tell  me,  how 
much  money  have  you  left  from  the  price  of  your 
cow?" 

"Nothing,"  answered  Staers;  "  I  gave  it  all 
yesterday  into  the  hands  of  our  landlord's  stew- 
ard, and  no  sooner  had  he  put  it  away  in  his 
money-box  than  he  told  me  that  the  writ  of  eject- 
ment had  been  already  issued." 

"That  is  no  great  matter;  your  debts  are  so 
much  the  less.  Clara  has  been  telling  me  that 
you  have  resolved  never  to  drink  again.  Is  this 
really  your  irrevocable  determination?" 

"If  I  ever  drink  again — one  single  drop — "  ex- 
claimed Jan  Staers,  clenching  his  fists,  "may 
God—" 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  99 

"  Ko,  no,  don't  swear  about  it !"  interposed  the 
old  man;  '^your  word  is  quite  sufficient  for  the 
moment." 

"Drink!"  exclaimed  the  other  again.  "So 
firmly  have  I  resolved  that  I  will  never  again  set 
foot  inside  a  public-house,  that  I  would  not  do  it 
to  gain  any  sum  of  money — never — never!" 

"  Come,  that  is  good ;  and  you  have  made  up 
your  mind  to  w^ork  like  a  right-minded,  independ- 
ent man?" 

"Ah,  neighbor  Torfs,  I  don't  know  whether  I 
ought  to  say  so  to  you,  but  I  am  longing  to  die ; 
for  my  death  will  make  my  child  happy.  And 
since  that  is  the  only  good  I  can  do  her,  I  shall 
try  to  put  an  end  to  my  wretched  life — " 

"What,  what!  put  an  end  to  your  own  life!" 
exclaimed  the  old  man,  with  horror.  "Surely  you 
have  lost  your  senses!  Don't  you  believe,  then, 
that  you  have  a  soul,  and  that  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven  ?  Wretched  man !  your  words  make  mo 
shudder." 

"You  deceive  yourself,"  remarked  Jan  Staers; 
"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  have  resolved  to  work,  to 
slave,  so  hard  and  so  continuously,  that  I  shall 
sink  under  it — that  my  body  w411  waste  and  give 
way-" 

"  Oh,  come,  is  that  all  you  mean  ?"  said  old 
Torfs,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  of  joy.  "  You 
may  make  yourself  quite  easy  about  that;  the 
work  men  do  with  a  hearty  good-will  never  yet 
killed  anybody;   on  the  contrary,  it  makes  them 


100  THE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE. 

strong  and  healthy.  But,  neighbor  Jan,  you 
are  not  wise  to  be  so  impetuous.  Even  in  good 
things  cool  counsel  is  best,  and  the  golden  mean 
is  the  best  way  to  reach  the  goal.  Are  you  really 
resolved  to  sacrilice  your  miserable  liking  for 
drink  to  the  happiness  of  your  daughter?  Be- 
g*n,  then,  by  taking  your  affliction  patiently,  and 
look  your  humiliation  courageously  in  the  face. 
Break  down  your  pride;  it  is  that  which  makes 
you  speak  so  harshly  and  rise  up  in  rebellion 
against  your  inevitable  lot.  Listen  to  me  now, 
calmly;  I  shall  make  you  see  that  you  have  no 
reason  to  abandon  yourself  to  despair.  Yester- 
day you  did  not  behave  quite  w^ell  to  me,  and  I 
had  firmly  resolved  never  to  speak  a  word  more 
to  you.  But  the  sorrow,  the  disgrace,  of  Clara, 
who  sat  weeping  at  the  door  of  your  house,  have 
overcome  me.  All  is  forgiven  and  forgotten.  I 
have  been  pondering  it  all  the  night,  and  now  I 
liave  hit  on  a  plan  to  be  of  use  to  you  and  to  your 
daughter.  The  first  condition  I  make  is,  that  you 
shall  leave  oif  drink — because,  if  I  knew  that  you 
ever  once — only  once — tasted  gin  again,  I  should 
certainly  leave  you  to  your  fate,  and  never  trouble 
myself  with  you  any  more  than  if  I  had  never 
known  you." 

An  expression  of  rising  vexation  passed  over 
Jan  Staers's  face;  he  made  an  evident  eftbrt  to 
control  himself  and  get  the  better  of  this  feeling. 
It  was  nevertheless  observable  in  his  words,  for  he 
said — 


THE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  101 

"You  wish  to  raise  Clara  out  of  her  poverty? 
Well,  now,  take  her  into  your  house,  or  provide 
for  her  in  some  other  w'ay.  I  will  leave  the  vil- 
lage, and  seek  my  bread  of  bitterness  somcwliero 
else,  until  I  need  it  no  longer." 

"Always  proud!"  growled  the  old  man.  "  l^o, 
no,  that  won't  do.  In  case  you  ever  get  drunk 
again,  you  Avould  be  coming  back  and  giving  mo 
trouble  that  I  would  not — and  could  not — put  up 
with." 

"  But  I  tell  you  that  I  mean  never  to  drink  any 
more — never!" 

"That  is  just  what  w^e  must  first  of  all  see — 
you  as  well  as  I.  Listen  attentively,  and  don't 
interrupt  me.  You  have  nothing  at  all  left ;  and 
if  you  don't  wish  to  beg  you  must  work — w^ork  as 
a  day-laborer.  Well,  now,  look  you  'here  what  I 
propose  to  you.  You  shall  w^ork  for  me ;  I  will 
give  you  the  very  highest  w^ages,  and  I  shall  not 
mind  if  you  take  a  holiday  now  and  then." 

"Work  for  you?  your  day-laborer,  your  ser- 
vant?" muttered  Jan  Staers,  with  fierce  despera- 
tion. 

"Is  it  not  all  one  whom  you  work  for?" 

"Ko,  it  is  not  all  one  to  me,"  was  the  answer. 
"  I  cannot  help  it ;  the  thought  of  it  kills  me  with 
shame." 

"  I  understand ;  you  have  always  had  a  grudge 
against  me.  But  w^as  it  my  fault?  Have  I  ever 
done  you  any  harm?" 

"No,"  exclaimed  Jan  Staers;  "it  is  envy  that 

9* 


102  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

was  consuming  me.  Your  success  was  the  ever- 
lasting rebuke  of  my  indolence  —  I  could  not 
digest  it — nor  now  either.  I  would  rather  work 
for  anybody  else." 

"It  cannot  be,  neighbor;  for  your  own  welfare 
it  is  necessary  that  I  should  help  you  in  the  effort 
to  overcome  your  unhappy  vice.  Don't  be  too 
proud;  it  is  not  enough  just  to  say,  'I  won't  drink 
any  more,'  to  cure  oneself  of  so  terrible  a  failing. 
So,  if  you  work  for  me,  I  ask  this  pledge  for  the 
space  of  three  months.  It  is  not  that  I  Avant  to  be 
your  master;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  on  my  part  an 
effort  to  enable  myself  to  become  your  true  friend. 
So  it  is  seriously  agreed  between  us,  is  it  not,  that 
for  that  time  you  will  not  taste  gin,  not  one  single 
drop?  For,  you  see,  however  firm  your  resolve 
may  be  now',  once  put  your  lips  to  the  glass — and 
the  devil  has  you  safe  enough  again  in  his  clutches! 
Well  now,  will  you  accept  the  test?" 

A  scornful  smile  played  on  the  lips  of  Jan  Staers. 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  replied  he;  "you  may  be  sure 
I  shall  never  drink  again." 

"But  do  you  submit  to  the  test  with  good- will 
and  in  all  kindliness?" 

"Yes,  since  you  w^ish  it." 

"^ow  I  will  say  something  more.  If  you  keep 
your  w^ord,  and  avoid  all  drink  for  three  months, 
then  you  w^ill  have  gained  mastery  enough  over 
yourself  to  do  your  duty  henceforward  as  an  honor- 
able man  and  as  a  father.  "We  will  then  begin  to 
talk  about  our  children,  and  consider  whether  it  is 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  103 

Dot  advisable  to  let  them  marry  after  Easter.  You 
should  never  remain  a  daj-laborer  then,  Jan  Staers. 
My  son  would  have  to  call  you  father,  and  you  can 
fancy  that  we  should  not  let  you  remain  in  a  de- 
grading position.  My  first  project — the  one  you  so 
scornfully  rejected — will  come  forward  again  to  be 
talked  over.  "We  Avill  put  our  children  into  a  little 
cottage,  and  you  should  then  come  and  live  with 
us,  not  as  a  laborer  or  as  a  servant,  but  as  our  rela- 
tion, as  a  member  of  our  family." 

While  the  old  man  was  speaking,  Jan  Staers 
looked  at  him  with  an  unwonted  expression ;  his 
features  seem  transfigured  and  brightened  by  a 
gentle  emotion,  and  his  eyes  glistened,  as  though 
the  words  of  his  neighbor  were  pouring  a  healing 
and  comforting  balm  into  his  soul.  The  old  Torfs 
remarked  this  favorable  change  in  his  state  of 
mind,  and  it  was  with  a  more  tender  accent,  and 
a  sympathetic  deepening  of  emotion,  that  he  thus 
continued: 

''Jan,  hitherto  every  one  in  our  village  had 
laughed  at  you  and  despised  you ;  you  have  be- 
haved very  shockingly,  and  have  given  yourself 
up  blindfold  to  drink,  in  order  to  drown  the  re- 
proaches of  your  conscience  there  within  you ;  is 
it  not  so?  Ah,  well,  now  only  carry  out  your 
good  resolution,  and  you  will  see  how  happy  your 
life  will  be  from  this  time.  All  the  lads  will  be 
edified  by  your  amendment;  people  will  esteem 
you  for  your  wise  resolve.  Meanwhile  all  the 
past  will  sink  and  be  forgotten ;  and,  in  the  feel- 


104  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

iiig  that  you  are  doing  your  duty  toward  God  and 
toward  man  as  you  ought,  you  will  find  strength 
and  courage ;  you  will  be  able  to  caiTy  your  head 
up  again,  and  look  everybody  honestly  in  the  face. 
We  shall  be  good  friends ;  we  will  work  together 
for  our  children,  for  they  will  inherit  all  w^e  have, 
won't  they?  We  w^ill  make  ourselves  glad  in 
their  love,  in  their  happiness ;  and  when  the  Lord 
of  heaven  shall  at  length  call  us  to  his  throne  of 
judgment,  w^e  shall  appear  there  with  an  assured 
confidence  in  his  mercy  and  compassion !" 

Jan  Staers  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  pathetic 
tone  of  the  old  man,  and  great  tears  trickled  fast 
over  his  cheeks. 

"You  are  too  good,"  said  he;  "I  don't  deserve 
it." 

And  raising  his  hand,  he  exclaimed — 

"Ah,  I  shall  now  be  able  to  rise  out  of  my 
shame  and  degradation !  It  is  not  too  late  to  ex- 
piate my  past  guilt;  I  shall  have  around  me  a 
family  that  loves  me ;  I  shall  work  for  my  Clara, 
make  myself  worthy  of  her  love,  see  her  happy ' 
Ah,  Torfs,  noble,  generous  man,  you  give  me  my 
life  back  again,  you  restore  peace  to  my  soul,  and 
trust  in  God's  goodness  !     Thanks,  thanks  !" 

"Give  me  your  hand  on  it,"  said  the  old  man; 
"  the  hand  of  kindness  and  firm  resolution." 

The  pressure  of  Jan  Staers  s  hand  was  most  vio- 
lent; and,  as  if  he  could  not  be  temperate  in  any 
thing,  he  now  overwhelmed  his  neighbor  with  all 
kinds  of  fervent  expressions  of  thanks  to  such  an 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.        105 

extent,  at  length,  that  old  Torfs,  wishing  to  put 
an  end  to  these  demonstrations  of  gratitude,  in- 
terrupted him,  by  saying,  with  calm  earnestness — 

*'Jan,  I  have  confidence  in  the  sincerity  and 
finnness  of  your  resolve ;  but  you  must  allow  mo 
to  speak  for  a  moment,  as  if  it  were  just  possible 
that  you  should  again  yield  to  temptation.  What 
I  ask  of  you  is  the  price  of  your  daughter's  whole 
future  and  happiness.  If  you  ever  once  let  your- 
self be  overcome  with  drink  I  shall,  without  mercy, 
break  off  every  engagement  between  us,  and  forbid 
my  son  ever  to  see  Clara  again,  even  though  I  have 
to  use  all  my  power  and  authority  as  a  father  to 
compel  him.  I  am  not  wanting  in  strength  of  will ; 
what  1  have  once  decided  after  mature  thought  is 
infallibly  done.  But  I  feel  assured  that  you  will 
never  be  so  inhuman  a  father  as  to  crush  the  life 
of  your  daughter  for  the  sake  of  a  miserable  vice. 
You  must  remember  that  there  yawns  before  you 
an  infinite  abyss  of  shame,  of  poverty,  and  of  male- 
diction ;  you  will  never  leap  into  it  and  drag  your 
child  after  you,  now  that  deliverance  and  happiness 
smile  upon  you?" 

"Xo,  no,  you  need  not  fear,"  said  Jan  Staers, 
beseechingly;  "I  will  follow  your  advice;  I  will 
let  you  lead  me  like  a  child  ;  I  will  submit  myself 
to  your  will,  and  serve  you  with  gratitude,  and 
with  respect  and  veneration.  More  than  this  I 
cannot  say :  words  fail  me  to  express,  as  I  wish, 
the  feeling  of  gratitude  that  fills  me  and  unnerves 
me.     But  be  very  sure,  for  all  that,  I  will  never 


106  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

drink  again,  never  any  thing  stronger  than 
water." 

"And  coffee  and  small  beer,  which  you  will 
liave  with  us.  You  must  not  run  on  too  fast  with 
your  resolves,  neighbor;  it  is  dangerous.  He 
whose  arrow  flies  over  the  target  misses  his  mark 
quite  as  much  as  he  who  falls  short." 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  pressing 
once  more  Jan  Staers's  hand,  he  said — 

"I  am  very  much  pleased;  a  joyful  hope  fills 
my  heart.  Take  courage,  neighbor ;  we  shall  get 
on.  We  shall  live  many  happy  days  together  in 
the  world  yet.  When  will  you  come  to  my  house 
and  set  to  work?" 

"To-morrow,  if  you  like." 

"  To-morrow !  I  would  much  rather  you  should 
come  to-day,  after  dinner ;  for  3'ou  see,  Jan  Staers, 
hard  work  is  the  most  mighty  weapon  against  all 
kinds  of  vice,  and  it  is  not  good  for  a  man  to  be 
left  too  long  alone  with  his  own  thoughts.  AVhen 
a  man  is  idle,  good  and  bad  thoughts  run  alike 
through  his  head." 

"  Well,  then,  this  afternoon ;  I  will  do  any  thing 
you  like." 

"We' will  thresh  some  new  corn  together,  and 
you  will  feel  how  hard  work  clears  the  head  and 
cheers  the  heart!     Till  the  afternoon,  then." 

Farmer  Torfs  left  the  cottage  in  a  very  happy 
frame  of  mind.  Though  he  could  not  help  being 
a  little  anxious  about  his  efforts  and  their  possible 
consequences,  yet  he  inwardly  rejoiced  that  he  had 


THE    CTTRSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  107 

resolved  to  make  them.  The  thought  that  he  was 
going  to  confer  a  very  great  benefit  on  a  fellow- 
man  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  joyous  pride.  And 
with  this  there  mingled  a  sweet  and  delightful 
satisfaction  that  he  was  thus  securing  his  son's 
happiness,  and  sparing  him  much  sorrow  and 
bitter  pain.  So  he  stepped  out  through  the  fields 
with  unusual  vigor  and  speed,  and  soon  reached 
his  little  cottage.  There  he  found  his  wife  and 
Clara  at  the  door,  looking  anxiously  and  inquir- 
ingly at  him  as  he  drew  near,  and  taking  comfort 
from  the  smile  on  his  face.  Both  came  a  few  steps 
toward  him,  and  asked  him  eagerly  how  he  had 
fared  in  his  visit  to  the  cottage. 

"  It  is  all  right ;  I  am  very  much  pleased ;"  said 
the  old  man.  "After  all,  there  is  good  feeling, 
even  virtue  itself,  in  Jan  Staers.  I  have  a  good  hope 
that  every  thing  will  turn  out  just  as  we  wish." 

"And  has  he  agreed  to  all  you  have  proposed 
to  him  ?"  inquired  Mother  Torfs. 

"  Yes,  he  has.  It  cost  him  a  little  efibrt  at  first, 
though ;  but  after  all,  you  see,  Beth,  we  must  not 
ask  too  much  of  a  man  who  is  in  trouble.  Cologne 
and  Aix-la-Chapelle  were  not  built  in  a  day.  We 
ehall  do  now;  we  shall  do,  I  see.  I  am  very  glad 
that  God  put  the  notion  into  my  head ;  I  am  sure 
it  will  turn  out  well."  He  took  the  hand  of  the 
poor  girl,  who  stood  by,  devounng  his  words  with 
tremulous  eagerness.  "And  you,  Clara,"  said  he, 
v/ith  considerable  delicacy  and  affection  in  his 
voice,  "you  too  will  help  us  a  little,  and  strengthen 


108  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    S'lLLAQE. 

your  father  in  his  good  resolve  by  your  love  and 
care.  Ha!  look  up,  and  be  a  little  more  lively; 
the  gay  dreams  of  yesterday  will  come  true  after 
all.  You  will  be  to  us  a  very  dear  child;  we  will 
all  live  together  in  aftection  and  in  unmingled 
joy  and  happiness." 

The  maiden  was  so  deeply  moved  that  she 
turned  away  her  head  to  hide  her  tears.  Sud- 
denly a  distant  sound  seemed  to  have  caught  her 
ear,  for  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  away  over 
the  fields  in  the  direction  from  which  came  the 
sharp  crack  of  a  well-known  whip.  "With  a  cry 
of  joy  she  raised  her  hands  above  her  head,  and 
waved  them  in  the  air  like  the  sails  of  a  win(hnill. 

"What  are  you  about,  Clara?"  asked  Mother 
Beth,  in  amazement. 

"Look,  look,"  said  the  maiden,  "yonder  in  the 
lower  road  Luke  is  coming  with  his  cart!  oh,  how 
glad  he  will  be  !" 

She  continued  all  the  wdiile  making  signs  to 
Luke. 

"  Ila,  ha,  he  sees  it !  he  sees  it !"  she  exclaimed, 
"Listen,  how  merrily  he  is  cracking  his  whip! 
here  he  comes !  here  he  comes !" 

And  in  sooth  Luke  was  cracking  his  whip  so 
vigorously  in  the  distance  that  the  sound  came  on 
the  breeze  like  the  modulations  of  a  lively  song. 

"Oh,  the  vagabond!"  roared  Father  Torfs, 
stamping  his  foot  with  anger ;  "  the  hair-brained 
vagabond,  he  is  making  the  horse  go  at  full  gallop ! 
lie  will  break  his  neck  or  his  limbs  in  another 


THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  109 

minute.  Just  look  how  the  cart  is  thumping  and 
jolting  along  the  road !  he'll  break  it  all  to  bits ! 
sure  enoijgh,  he'll  never  reach  home  with  a  sound 
skin.  The  stupid  blockhead !  I'll  pay  him  out 
for  this.  Oh,  these  young  folk — these  young  folk 
— there  is  no  holding  them  in  !   Just  look — look!" 

*'I^o,  no,  don't  be  vexed,  Father  Torfs,"  said 
Clara,  coaxingly ;  "it  is  all  joy — all  for  gladness. 
I'll  run  on  and  tell  him  to  drive  a  little  more 
gently." 

"  I^ow,  look  there ;  only  listen  how  my  poor  old 
cart  is  creaking  and  rattling  along!"  growled  the 
old  man.  "  The  blacksmith  will  get  a  good  job 
out  of  that,  I  see.  Yes — there's  so  much  gone  of 
my  precious  money.  There  now,  there,  the  horse 
is  off  full  gallop  again  !" 

But  Clara  had  ceased  to  hear  the  wail  of  his 
lamentation ;  with  the  speed  of  an  arrow  just  free 
from  the  bow,  she  was  off  over  the  fields,  running 
at  full  speed,  shouting  and  waving  both  arms,  to 
meet  the  reckless  stripling. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

After  dinner  Jan  Staers  presented  himself  in 
the  cottage  of  his  old  neighbor,  to  begin  his 
career  as  day-laborer.  Farmer  Torfs  placed  a 
flail  in  his  hand,  and  led  him  to  the  barn,  where 

10 


110  THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

they  and  another  hired  laborer  were  to  thresh  the 
new  corn. 

AVhen  Jan  Staers  entered  the  barn,  a  thrill  of 
painful  surprise  ran  through  him ;  his  lips  were 
compressed  together  with  vexation,  and  his  fore- 
head glowed  with  the  scarlet  of  shame.  He  had 
recognised  in  the  laborer  one  of  his  own  servants 
in  times  gone  by,  whom  he  had  discharged  in  a  fit 
of  drunkenness  and  with  very  harsh  and  brutal 
treatment.  And  now  this  poor  day-laborer  greeted 
him  with  a  familiar  smile,  and  in  that  smile  was 
a  slight  touch  of  revengeful  derision  ;  so  at  least 
thought  Jan  Staers,  whose  heart  was  suddenly 
charged  with  bitterness  at  this  unexpected  appa- 
rition and  at  his  haunting  suspicion. 

Matters  became  still  worse  when  Jan,  either 
through  distraction  or  because  he  Avas  not  accus- 
tomed to  work,  did  not  wield  his  flail  scientiflcally 
enough,  and  so  struck  out  of  his  turn.  Then  the 
laborer  would  utter  some  little  joke,  and  make 
merry  over  the  unskilfulness  of  his  former  master. 
Poor  Jan  made  very  great  efforts  to  restrain  his 
anger;  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  in  a  wide  stare  on 
the  straw  which  covered  the  barn-floor,  and  did 
not  look  at  his  fellow-laborer  again. 

The  old  Torfs  thought  nothing  of  the  perti- 
nacious silence  of  Jan  Staers,  or  rather  he  thought 
it  a  natural  consequence  of  his  sadness  and  of  the 
trouble  he  was  in.  During  the  whole  afternoon  he 
used  every  possible  effort  to  raise  the  spirits  of  hia 
companion;  and  whenever  a  new  sheaf  was  laid  on 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.    '  111 

•the  floor,  tlie  good  old  man  took  the  opportunity 
to  say  a  few  merry  words  to  him,  and  thus,  if  pos- 
sible, entice  a  smile  to  play  on  the  lips  of  his 
gloomy  neighbor. 

But  all  was  in  vain.  Jan  Staers  worked  until 
the  perspiration  streamed  from  his  forehead,  and 
soon  he  turned  out  his  work  in  a  much  better 
style ;  but  he  answered  the  old  man's  demonstra- 
tions of  friendship  only  by  brief,  abrupt  mono- 
syllables, and  never  spoke  a  word  unless  when 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  in  order  not  to  seem 
rude  or  stupid. 

And  so  things  went  on  until  evening  closed  in. 
Then  Jan  Staers  took  leave  of  his  neighbor  with 
a  cold  greeting,  and  he  took  himself  to  his  own 
little  cottage.  When  the  poor  day-laborer  had 
wished  him  good-evening  in  a  friendly,  cheerful 
tone,  Jan  had  turned  his  head  sulkily  away,  and 
returned  him  no  answer. 

The  second  da^^,  and  the  following  days,  matters 
did  not  at  all  mend.  On  the  contrary,  now  that 
Jan  Staers  had  to  work  in  the  open  fields,  and 
sometimes  to  drive  through  the  village  in  the  cart 
of  his  new  master,  his  lofty  pride  was  ever  receiv- 
ing fresh  and  deeper  wounds.  The  peasants  who 
met  him  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  curious 
wonder,  which  tortured  him  and  made  him  wild 
with  shame,  as  though  he  regarded  every  look 
and  every  word  of  his  fellow-villagers  as  a  scornful 
jest  on  him. 

lie  was  yet  more  annoyed  and  irritated  when, 


112        THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

as  sometimes  happened,  he  observed  that  the 
farmers  would  come  running  out  of  their  barns  and 
stables  to  look  at  him  as  he  drove  by,  and  seemed 
to  whisper  and  smile  to  one  another  about  his  de- 
gradation and  humiliation.  His  heart  really  bled 
within  him;  he  was  consumed  by  a  secret  vexa- 
tion, which  rose  at  times  to  a  desperate  but  sullen 
rage.  Seeing  no  means  of  relieving  these  bitter 
torments  of  soul  by  words  or  deeds,  he  gradu- 
ally sank  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  moody  silence. 
At  all  hazards  he  resolved  to  abide  the  test — to 
keep  his  word; — the  happiness  of  his  daughter  I 
this  was  its  price.  He  made  eveiy  effort,  there- 
fore, that  his  indomitable  pride  permitted,  to 
please  Farmer  Torfs,  and  with  most  painful 
submission  carried  out  accurately  all  his  com- 
mands. 

The  deathlike  silence  of  her  father  grieved 
poor  Clara  excessively.  She  spared  no  exertion  to 
infuse  courage  and  hope  into  his  breast.  When- 
ever he  came  home  for  his  dinner  at  mid-day,  or 
returned  in  the  evening  with  wearied  limbs,  she 
surrounded  him  with  every  invention  of  affection- 
ate care,  spoke  to  him  the  tenderest  words  to 
comfort  him,  and  in  cheerful  accents  set  before 
him  the  joys  of  a  brighter  future. 

He  answered  her  affectionately,  and  appeared  to 
be  grateful  for  her  tender  affection :  then  he  usually 
broke  off  the  conversation  abruptly,  and  drove  tho 
poor  girl  to  silence  by  his  impenetrable  coldness. 
Then  he  would  go  into  a  corner,  and  sit  with  his 


TlIE    CUllSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  113 

head  buried  in  his  hands,  and  remain  lost  in 
gloom}^  musings,  until,  after  a  brief  good-night, 
he  went  up-stairs  into  the  attic  in  which  his  bed 
stood,  and  bolted  his  door  behind  him. 

This  singular  behavior  began  to  fill  Clara  and 
Ti'ike  with  uneasiness.  Their  blissful  dream  began 
to  enfold  itself  with  clouds  as  they  gazed  on  it ; 
and,  although  they  knew  not  what  they  had  to 
fear,  their  hearts  would  often  beat  with  intense 
anxiety  about  the  future. 

Quite  different  were  the  feelings  of  old  Torfs. 
It  was  true,  indeed,  that  the  melancholy  abstrac- 
tion of  Staers  did  not  please  him  very  much;  yet 
it  was  enough  for  him  that  he  kept  himself  from 
drink,  and  did  his  work  regularly  and  well.  He 
thought  they  could  not  expect  more  of  him  at 
first,  and  it  would  pass  away  by  degrees  as  he  got 
used  to  his  new  position.  Besides,  if  he  stood  the 
test  well,  and  really  remained  victorious  over  his 
fatal  propensity  to  drink  for  three  months,  then 
he  would  not  be  compelled  any  longer  to  work 
as  a  day-laborer;  on  the  contrary-,  he  would  be 
the  relation,  the  inmate,  and  the  equal,  of  Torfs 
himself.  This  improvement  in  his  condition,  the 
affectionate  friendship  of  his  new  family  circle, 
the  happiness  of  his  child, — all  this,  he  said,  would 
raise  Staers  out  of  the  dejection  which  kept  him 
so  low. 

So  the  old  man  used  to  say  to  his  son  and  fo 
Clara :  he  tried  to  make  them  sec  that  every  thing 
was  going  on  veiy  well — could  not  go  on  better — ' 

H  10* 


114        THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

and,  in  order  to  dissipate  their  gloomy  forebodings, 
he  would  at  times  laugh  and  jest  with  them  ou 
their  causeless  fears  and  fancies. 

What  inspired  him  with  this  comforting  hope 
was  the  evident  submission  of  Jan  Staers  to  his 
slightest  command,  and  the  painful  timidity  and 
gentleness  of  his  voice  whenever  he  said  any 
thing  to  him  or  asked  any  question  of  him. 

Gould  the  old  man  have  seen  how  Clara's  father, 
whenever  he  was  alone,  would  gnash  his  teeth  by 
fits  and  starts,  and  stamp  with  his  foot,  and  mutter 
bitter  words  between  his  teeth,  then  perhaps  he 
would  not  have  deemed  the  fears  of  his  children 
quite  groundless.  Bat  in  his  presence  Jan  Staers 
repressed  every  rising  feeling  of  impatience  or 
of  vexation,  and  assumed  a  sad  but  calm  and  cool 
exterior. 

Ten  days  had  thus  gone  by,  and  Jan  Staers  had 
manifested  no  tendency  toward  strong  drink ;  and 
it  was  commonly  thought  in  the  village  that  he 
had  really  overcome,  by  an  unwonted  energy  and 
persistence  of  will,  a  vice  which  is  generally  most 
difficult  of  cure,  if  not  entirely  hopeless.  But,  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  there  appeared  some  indica- 
tions which  began  to  disquiet  the  old  Torfs,  and 
to  excite  in  him  suspicions  and  doubts  whether 
Clara's  father  had  accepted  the  test  with  good  will 
and  free  concurrence.  Wlienever  he  went  to  see 
him  in  the  fields,  he  was  pained  and  surprised  to 
find  him  standing  w^ith  his  arms  crossed ;  and,  at 
the  end  of  the  day,  the  veiy  small  amount  of  work 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  115 

clone  showed  that  he  must  have  passed  many 
hours  in  idleness. 

The  two  vices  which  old  Torfs  hated  the  most 
were  idleness  and  drunkenness.  It  grieved  him  to 
see  that  Staei-s,  while  he  seemed  to  get  the  bettei 
of  his  drunkenness,  remained  still  the  slave  of  in- 
dolence. Nevertheless,  the  old  man  made  as  many 
excuses  for  him  as  he  could ;  he  thought  he  had 
noticed  that  Clara's  father  had  been  paler  than 
usual  the  last  few  days,  and  that  his  cheeks  had 
become  visibly  thinner. 

Torfs  had  spoken  to  him  about  it,  and  told  him 
that  if  he  did  not  feel  quite  well  he  should  not 
hesitate  to  say  so,  and  then  he  might  stay  a  few 
days  at  home  to  rest  himself  thoroughly ;  but  Jan 
Staers  had  made  reply  that  he  was  quite  well,  and 
felt  himself  strong  enough  to  do  any  work  that 
farm-laborers  usually  did. 

The  tw^elfth  day — the  morrow  was  a  great  holi- 
day— ^Father  Torfs  was  returning  from  the  tow^o, 
to  which  he  had  been  summoned  by  his  landlord. 
At  the  end  of  the  lower  road  he  did  not  follow 
the  pine  avenue,  but  took  a  footpath  which  would 
lead  him  along  a  field  where  he  knew  that  Jan 
Staers  was  employed  in  spreading  a  great  heap  of 
manure.  When  he  had  reached  the  field,  and 
come  to  Clara's  father,  he  took  him  by  the  hand, 
and  said,  in  a  light  and  joyous  tone  of  voice — 

"  Don't  be  cast  down,  friend  Jan ;  take  courage, 
man ;  things  will  all  come  right.  Shall  I  tell  you 
fiomethinf]^  that  will  give  you  great  pleasure  ?" 


116  THE    CUKSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE. 

lie  then  gave  him  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and 
said — 

"What  would  you  think,  eh?  if  I  were  to  tell 
you  that  you  would  sleep  again — much  sooner 
than  you  think  for — in  the  stone  farm-house  yon- 
der?" 

"J  sleep  there?  is  the  new  tenant  in  want  of 
a  servant,  then  ?"  muttered  Staers,  with  a  forced 
effort  at  a  jest. 

"You  don't  catch  my  meaning;  I  mean  that 
you  will  live  again  in  the  stone  house,  as  you  used 
to  do  formerly." 

"  But  the  new  tenant  is  Franz  Vleugels,  from 
the  forest  farm." 

"  He  has,  indeed,  offered  a  good  deal  for  it ;  but 
the  man — do  you  see,  Staers?" 

And  the  old  man  raised  his  hand  to  his  lips, 
and  made  a  movement  with  it  to  imitate  a  man 
drinking. 

"  So  you  see,  neighbor  Jan,  the  landlord  won't 
hear  of  him.  He  would  rather  let  the  farm  at  a 
much  lower  rent,  if  he  can  only  be  sure  that  it 
will  be  regularly  paid,  and  that  his  impoverished 
fields  will  be  improved  and  well  farmed.  Guess, 
now,  who  the  new  tenant  is  ?" 

"What  business  is  it  of  mine?"  growled  Jan 
Staers.  "I  should  like  never  to  hear  the  stone 
farm  mentioned  again — the  wretched  hole  where 
I  was  slowly  ruined  I" 

"Kow,  now,  be  a  little  more  calm,  neighbor 
Jan ;  Jam  the  new  tenant." 


THE    CURSE   or   THE    VILLAGE.  117 

"I  knew  well  it  would  end  so!"  exclaimed  Jan 
Staers,  with  a  forced  laugh,  which  was  irieant  to 
fiimulate  joy,  and  expressed  envious  derision. 

"And  I  have  got  it  at  a  very  reasonable  rent," 
continued  the  old  man.  "I  give  very  little  more 
for  it  than  you  did.  It  is  a  mine  of  gold,  my 
friend.  The  landlord,  who  has  a  liking  for  me, 
because  he  has  known  me  these  twenty  years  as 
an  honorable  man,  and  is  sure  that  I  shall  im- 
prove his  property,  opened  his  money-box,  and 
said  I  might  take  what  I  wanted.  I  am  to  buy 
cows  and  horses,  and  hire  laborers  as  many  as  I 
like.  Yes,  we  shall  do,  now ;  we  shall  have  to 
tuck  up  our  sleeves,  now!  Eh,  neighbor,  our 
children  will  have  room  enough  in  the  world, 
now ;  for  if  we  don't  get  money  now,  people  may 
well  say,  '  They  were  too  stupid  or  too  idle  to  be- 
come rich.' " 

During  this  glowing  exposition  of  the  old  man's 
projects,  Jan  Staers  kept  his  e3^es  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  his  arms  seemed  to  tremble  by  his 
side. 

"  Well,  now,  what  do  you  say  of  this  news  ?" 
asked  Torfs,  astonished  at  his  silence. 

"  Good !  it  is  very  good !  I  wish  you  good 
luck !"  muttered  Jan  Staers. 

"You  must  have  a  better  heart,"  said  the  old 
man,  with  increasing  joy;  "the  appointed  time 
will  soon  run  out;  then  you  shall  leave  your  cot- 
tage, and  come  to  live  with  us  in  the  stone  farm- 
bouse.     We  must  not  put  off  the  marriage  of  our 


118  THE   CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

young  folk  much  longer,  or  the  little  farm-house 
will  have  to  stand  empty.  It  is  a  good  thing 
that  winter  is  coming  on,  and  that  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  plastering  and  patching  up  to  be  done  in 
the  stone  house ;  for  the  landlord  wishes  to  hand 
it  over  to  me  sound  and  in  good  repair.  Monday 
we  will  go  together  there,  and  have  a  look  over  it, 
and  see  what  we  can  do  to  prepare  the  fields  to 
yield  a  good  harvest  next  year.  The  land  has 
had  a  good  fallow,  friend  Jan;  it  will  work  well, 
depend  on  it !  Come  back  to  the  house  in  some- 
thing less  than  an  hour ;  we  will  have  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  bespeak  one  of  mother's  best  rye- 
rakes.     Good-by ;  within  an  hour !" 

Jan  Staers  leaned  on  his  pitchfork,  and  with  a 
fixed  and  gloomy  look  followed  the  old  man  with 
his  eyes  until  he  had  disappeared  in  the  distance. 
lie  remained  in  this  attitude  as  though  stunned, 
sunk  in  the  depth  of  despair,  and  with  a  bitter 
sneer  on  his  countenance,  until  he  lieard  over  the 
fields  the  echo  of  gladsome  voices  in  the  house  of 
old  Torfs :  they  were  welcoming  the  glad  tidings. 

All  his  muscles  quivered  with  a  sudden  convul- 
sion. With  an  unintelligible  growl,  he  threw  the 
pitchfork  angrily  away  from  him.  lie  stamped 
his  feet  and  clenched  his  fists;  the  sounds  which 
escaped  his  lips  were  formless,  but  they  sounded 
like  fierce  and  terrible  execrations. 

He  remained  a  short  time  overmastered  by  this 
transport  of  rage.  But  soon  he  relapsed  into  his 
former  immobility,  and,  as  though  his  reason  gra- 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  119 

dually  gained  an  insight  into  his  true  situation, 
his  limbs  became  again  relaxed,  and  he  said  to 
himself,  in  a  dejected  tone — 

"Wretch  that  I  am  !  He  brings  me  happiness 
for  my  child — and  I  am  bursting  with  envy !  ab- 
ject coward  !  I  am  lying  prostrate  in  the  pit  of 
misery  I  have  dug  for  myself,  and  I  hold  him  for 
my  enemy  who  reaches  out  a  brother's  hand  to 
raise  me  from  my  degradation.  Oh,  that  drink, 
that  drink  !  It  numbs  the  heart — it  slays  the  soul. 
But  I  will  overcome  it ;  I  will  strangle  this  demon 
of  pride  which  possesses  my  heart.  Come  on. 
Farmer  Staers,  you  contemptible  drunkard,  you 
are  to  be  a  servant  in  your  father's  stone  farm- 
house !  You  must  be  obedient,  and  toil  and  wear 
yourself  out  for  others,  in  the  very  house  where 
you  used  to  command  as  master.  The  men  will 
laugh  at  your  humiliation  ;  they  will  make  a  mock 
of  you ;  they  w^ill  rejoice,  in  their  envious  gibes, 
over  your  misfortunes ;  but  you  must  stoop  and 
crouch,  and  digest  your  misery  as  best  you  can, 
and  drink  the  poison  draught  of  shame — drink  it 
in  full  draughts — until  you  burst!" 

He  w^ent  a  few  steps,  took  up  his  fork  from  the 
ground,  and  began  to  work  again ;  but  there  was 
something  so  wild  and  feverish  in  his  way  of 
working,  that  one  would  liave  said  he  was  cooling 
his  rage  upon  the  heap  of  manure.  lie  stuck  his 
pitchfork  into  it  with  furious  violence,  threw  it 
hither  and  thither  without  order  or  moderation, 
and  behaved  himself  like  one  out  of  his  senses.. 


120  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

After  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  perspira- 
tion was  pouring  from  his  brow,  and  his  breath 
was  short  and  thick  with  extreme  weariness. 
But  still  he  continued,  and  at  intervals  a  gloomy 
sound  issued  from  his  mouth,  as  though  he  were 
goading  himself  on  to  persevere  in  this  desperate 
conflict  with  himself,  until  he  sank  exhausted  and 
powerless. 

Then  all  at  once  he  heard  the  voice  of  Farmer 
Torfs,  who  was  calling  to  him  from  a  great  dis- 
tance to  leave  his  work  and  come  to  drink  the 
promised  coffee. 

"Perdition!"  growled  Jan  Staers.  "Go — and 
sit  down  at  the  table — look  on — and  see  how  glad 
they  all  are — how  they  clap  their  hands  for  joy ! 
See  how  your  own  child  exults  in  your  disgrace  ! — 
and  chatter,  and  laugh  and  be  merry ;  or  else  you 
will  be  driven  away  like  a  servant,  who  is  not 
servile  enough  in  his  master's  eyes !  Come,  come, 
— crawl  along — reptile  that  you  are  !" 

And  with  slow  steps  he  went,  and  murmured  as 
he  went,  toward  the  abode  of  Farmer  Torfs. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


It  was  the  day  after  this  scene,  and  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Clara  stood  ready,  with 
her  prayer-book  in  her  hand,  to  go  to  church.  She 
spoke  to  her  father,  and  said,  with  her  sweet  voice — 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   TILLAGE.  121 

"Xow,  jou  will  go  out,  won't  you  ?  and  walk  a 
bit  in  tlie  fields  to  freshen  you  up  ?  The  sun  is 
shining  so  clear;  it  is  so  beautiful  and  so  fresh  out 
of  doors.  Here  you  sit  all  day  long,  moping ;  it 
is  not  right,  father.  You  will  make  yourself  ill. 
Farmer  Torfs  said,  too,  that  you  ought  to  got  a 
little  fresh  air.  Ah,  if  you  won't  do  it  for  your 
own  sake,  do  it  for  mine.  It  is  not  so  very  great 
a  kindness,  and  you  don't  know  how  glad  it  will 
make  me.  To  think  you  are  sitting  there  on  that 
chair  all  day  long,  with  your  head  in  your  hands, 
dreaming  away — do  you  think  that  that  is  no  grief 
tome?" 

"To  run  right  into  men's  faces,  and  have  to 
answer  all  sorts  of  jeering  questions!"  muttered 
Staers. 

"But,  father,"  observed  the  girl,  "it  is  a  fes- 
tival ;  almost  all  the  men  w^ill  be  in  church ;  you 
won't  meet  anybody.  Besides,  if  you  don't  wish 
to  see  anybody,  go  away  toward  the  forest ;  you 
may  be  sure  of  being  alone  there.  But  the  clock 
is  striking;  I  must  make  haste." 

She  pressed  his  hand,  and,  looking  coaxingly 
and  imploringly  into  his  eyes,  she  asked — 

"  Father  dear,  won't  you  now  ?  won't  you  take 
a  little  walk?" 

"Well,  yes.  What  difference  is  it  to  me?  It 
is  all  one  to  me — every  thing  is,"  answered  Jau 
Staers,  impatiently. 

"And  if  you  are  not  at  home  when  I  come  back 
from  church,  I  shall  go  to  Mother  Beth's ;  she  haa 

11 


122  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

begged  me  to  come.  You  will  come  on  too,  Avon't 
you,  father?  You  know  that  we  are  all  to  have 
a  game  of  cards  quietly  in  the  early  evening; 
Farmer  Torfs  said  so." 

"Very  w^ell,"  growled  Staers.  "Take  care  yon 
don't  be  late  for  the  service :  people  will  think  you 
are  lazy  and  idle." 

Repeating  hastily  her  greeting,  the  girl  ran  out 
at  the  door. 

Jan  Staers  remained  a  little  while  longer,  sitting 
without  moving  a  limb.  A  grim,  sour  smile  was 
on  his  lips ;  and  he  was  gazing  wrathfully  into 
vacancy,  as  though  a  disquieting  spirit  stood  before 
his  mind's  eye. 

"Play  a  game  at  cards!"  he  muttered.  "Yes 
— play  with  the  cards — and  gnaw  your  own  heart 
the  while  others  are  merry  and  glad.  Go  out  to 
w^alk :  yes,  show  yourself  out  of  doors :  Jem  Pas- 
mans  will  ask  you,  as  he  did  you  yesterday,  how 
much  you  get  a  day  with  the  old  beetle.  The 
broom-maker — a  mere  begger — he  will  pity  you, 
and  tell  you  it  is  a  miserable  and  humiliating 
thing  to  go  and  work  as  a  servant  in  your  father's 
farmyard ;  and  the  drunken  blacksmith  will  put 
his  hand  to  his  mouth,  and  laugh  and  shout  to 
you  from  a  distance  —  ^Jan,  Jan,  my  lad — this 
comes  of — the  glass !'  All  the  children  will  be  at 
your  heels  as  if  you  were  a  strange  sort  of  animal, 
and  they  wdll  whisper  scornfully  to  one  another 
about  Farmer  Staers,  the  great  fool,  who  was  rich, 
and  drank  himself  poor." 


THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  123 

Kow  he  held  his  peace  a  while,  and  his  morbid 
fancy  charged  these  irritating  thoughts  with  yet 
more  vivid  and  maddening  colors.  Then  an  ex- 
pression of  deepening  despair  succeeded  to  one  of 
envious  hatred  on  his  countenance,  and,  with  a 
laugh  of  fierce  and  bitter  derision,  he  continued — 

"And  to-morrow  I  am  to  go  and  work  in  the 
stone  farm-house — help  the  masons  to  put  new  tiles 
on  the  roof.  I  shall  have  to  stand  up  aloft,  on  a 
ladder,  right  out  in  the  street.  The  whole  village 
wnll  see  me;  fathers  will  point  me  out  to  their 
children  as  an  example  that  they  must  lay  up  in 
their  terrified  hearts.  My  story  Avill  be  told  again 
and  again  a  hundred  times ;  tmd  I,  the  while, 
dying  of  shame  and  spite,  shall  have  to  sit  up  there 
on  the  roof  like  a  martyr  on  the  rack ;  and  down 
below  in  the  street  they  will  be  laughing,  jesting, 
scoffing,  and  calling  out  aloud  that  I  have  deserved 
it.  Oh,  half  of  one  month  is  gone ;  and  I  feel 
myself  quite  conquered  already — ten  weeks  more  ! 
ten  ages  of  horrible  suffering,  of  infernal  de- 
spair!" 

All  his  limbs  were  convulsed  and  shaken  in  a 
paroxysm  of  passion.  He  rose  with  a  groan,  and 
strode  up  and  down  his  little  room  like  a  madman, 
shouting  aloud — 

•'No,  no!  it  cannot  last.  I  must  put  an  end  to 
it.  Clara ! — but  if  I  were  dead  she  would  be  happy. 
Kothing  could  hinder  her  marriage.  My  body 
would  be  scarcely  cold  before  the  Torfses  would 
begin  to  talk  of  the  wedding.     Ah,  I  should  be 


124  THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE. 

set  free  from  all  my  shame  ;  I  should  have  no  more 
feeling  than  a  stone  ;  no  more  conscience  to  gnaw 
me  ;  no  more  heart  to  feel." 

He  sprang  forward,  put  his  hand  on  the  bolt  of 
the  cupboard,  and  opened  the  door  of  it  with  vio- 
lence. Something  like  the  glimmering  of  bright 
steel  struck  his  eye.  He  stood  a  moment  looking 
at  it  with  a  shudder ;  it  seemed  to  kill  him  with 
terror  and  fear ;  for  he  closed  the  door  with  a  jerk, 
and  sprang  backward  with  a  dull,  sad  cry. 

Then,  as  though  he  would  escape  from  some 
perilous  thought,  he  began  again  to  run  rather  than 
walk  up  and  down  the  room,  and  roared  all  kinds 
of  disjointed  words  without  form  or  sense. 

Suddenly  he  stood  still  before  the  window  and 
looked  out.  A  smile  of  peculiar  joy  illumined  his 
face,  and  he  sighed  with  longing  for  something  the 
sight  of  which  seemed  to  cause  him  indescribable 
pleasure. 

Abo  Lit  a  bow-shot  oft',  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
brook,  was  a  public-house,  above  the  door  of  which 
hung  a  sign.  A  swan  was  painted  on  it,  and  be- 
neath the  swan  a  pint  full  of  brown  beer,  and  a 
green  flask  surrounded  with  little  glasses.  And 
on  this  flask  Jan  Staers  kept  his  eager  eye  fixed; 
he  stood  with  open  mouth  and  panting  breast,  and 
then  he  said,  with  a  shudder — 

"Gin  ! — Ah,  to  be  dead — no  more  consciousness 
— no  more  j)ain ;  to  drink,  drink,  drink,  and  then 
fall  down  without  reason,  without  soul !  to  feel 
the  flame  rush  through  one's  veins!  to  be  nch, 


THE   CUllSE   OF   THE    TILLAGE.  125 

happy,  valiant,  and  strong !  to  forget  every  thing 
— all — every  thing — come,  come!" 

He  felt  his  pockets  and  fumbled  about  them  with 
feverish  eagerness. 

"Money!"  murmured  he;  "I  have  no  money. 
The  old  beetle  won't  pay  me  till  to-morrow.  IIo 
distrusts  me  ;  I  might  go  and  drink  with  it  to-day. 
Ah,  I  saw  some  money  yesterday  ! — it  must  be 
there  still.     There,  in  Clara's  box  !" 

He  stooped  toward  the  box  while  saying  these 
w^ords,  and  took  out  a  little  casket,  the  contents  of 
wiiicjv.lie  shook  out  into  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

*' Silver!"  said  he,  with  glee.  '^Silver!  one, 
two,  three  francs,  and  a  half;  enough,  enough  to 
live,  to  die — " 

But,  as  if  the  pieces  of  money  had  uttered  an 
appealing,  expostulating  voice,  he  put  them  back 
into  the  little  box  hastily  and  in  terror,  and  began 
suddenly  to  shiver  and  to  totter  on  his  legs,  so 
that  he  sank  into  a  chair  to  prevent  himself  from 
falling. 

With  his  bewildered  eye  still  fixed  upon  the 
money,  he  said,  gloomily — 

"Vile  Judas!  go — sell  the  soul  of  your  child  I 

Wretch  that  I  am,  what  am  I  going  to  do  ?     Poor 

Clara,  she  has  worked  so  many  nights  in  secret  for 

this.     The  brewer's  wife  gave  her  some  shirts  to 

make;   she  has  hoarded  the  wages  of  her  toil, 

penny  by  penny,  all  in  secret;  I  was  not  to  know 

it.     But  Luke  has  betrayed  her.     She  is  going  to 

bnv  me  a  fine  Sunday  neckerchief;  she  w^ants  to 
11* 


126  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

surprise  and  gladden  me  with  this  grand  present ! 
— and  this  money,  this  money  of  love  and  affec- 
tion,— it  will  serve  for — oh  no,  no  !  never !  never!" 

Springing  np  hastily,  he  replaced  the  pieces  of 
money  in  Clara's  box.  While  he  was  stooping  to 
do  this,  a  strange  sound  smote  suddenly  on  his  ear. 
It  was  a  distant  noise,  as  of  some  one  who  was 
coming  along,  singing  as  he  walked.  Jan  Staers 
stood  upright  in  the  room,  and  listened  with  mar- 
vellous astonishment  to  the  song,  which  seemed  to 
him  more  and  more  f'stinct,  although  the  false 
notes,  and  the  confused  and  stammering  words, 
must  have  been  uttered  rather  by  an  idiot  than  by 
a  reasonable  man. 

"The  sand-digger!"  muttered  Jan  Staers,  with 
a  bitter  expression  of  env}^  on  his  countenance. 
"IIow  jolly  he  is  now!  He  has  had  his  drink; 
he  sings,  he  runs,  he  has  plenty  of  courage,  he 
knows  nothing  of  humiliation  or  of  shame  !  He 
has  no  daughter;  he  can  drink — drink  as  much  as 
he  likes." 

The  song  came  nearer  and  nearer ;  the  door  of 
Jan  Staers's  cottage  was  opened,  and  his  old  boon- 
companion  stood  before  him. 

Klaes  Grils,  the  sand-digger,  seemed  uncom- 
monly  merry,  and  in  good  spirits;  his  eyes  rolled 
wildly  in  his  head ;  his  cheeks  and  his  nose  glowed 
with  a  fiery  red ;  he  felt  with  his  hands  in  the  air, 
and  at  last  he  said,  with  a  loud  peal  of  laughter— 

"  There  he  is !  Good  God,  he  is  alive  still !  Jan 
Staers,  iad,  I  thought  you  were  gone  to  live  ia  a 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  12T 

molc-track.  These  ten  days  we  have  had  such  a 
drinking-bout !  it  is  so  good  just  now,  the  gin  at  the 
White  Calf.  I  wanted  to  lead  the  wheelwright's 
eon  home,  but  he  w^ould  lie  down  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  and  I  can't  make  him  get  up.  So  every 
one  to  his  taste,  say  I." 

Jan  Staers  stared  at  his  old  companion  with  a 
peculiarly  steady  and  fixed  look ;  there  he  stood, 
tottering  and  reeling  about,  and  making  all  kinds 
of  strange  grimaces. 

*'But,  bless  me,  friend  Jan,"  continued  he,  "you 
are  making  a  face  as  if  you  wanted  to  eat  me  up ! 
What  are  you  up  to  now  ?  Where  do  you  go  for 
a  drink?  or  do  you  manage  matters  like  great 
folks,  and  mix  your  glass  at  home  to  your  liking  ? 
I'm  going  to  try  that  to-day ;  I  have  a  little  green 
flask;  when  it  is  full  it  holds  over  a  pint." 

lie  put  his  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  blouse  and 
drew  out  a  flask.  Eeaching  it  out  to  Jan  Staers, 
he  stammered — 

"There,  that  comes  out  of  the  White  Calf  Just 
taste  it.  Only  a  drop ;  don't  be  greedy;  for  that's 
something  to  make  a  dead  man  jump  up  out  of 
his  coffin." 

He  kept  his  hand  stretched  out  toward  Jan 
Staers,  who  stood  trembling  wdth  inexpressible 
anguish,  and  following  every  movement  of  the 
flask  in  the  sand-digger's  unsteady  hand. 

"Is  your  throat  bunged  up?"  said  the  latter, 
jeeringly.  "Or  do  you  think  it  is  some  of  that 
wretched  stuft'  from  the  Blue  Dog?" 


128  THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

*'Go  away,  go  away!  take  the  flask  out  of  my 
sight!"  roared  Jan  Staers,  although  he  involun- 
tarily put  out  liis  hand  as  if  to  seize  it.  And  in 
truth  a  fearful  conflict  was  raging  within  him. 
The  memory  of  the  simple  hut  deep  aftection  of 
his  daughter  stayed  him  a  while  on  the  hrink  of 
the  awful  precipice;  hut  the  fatal  flask  shone  he- 
witchingly  before  his  eyes.  It  smiled  on  him;  it 
seemed  to  him  surrounded  with  all  kinds  of  en- 
chanting images  of  happiness;  it  drew  him  on  and 
on  with  irresistible  force,  as  the  magnet  draws  the 
needle. 

However,  the  brutal  and  repulsive  face  of  the 
sand-digger,  which  grinned  behind  the  flask,  would 
probably  have  given  him  strength  to  gain  the  vic- 
tory over  his  passion,  had  not  his  companion  at 
that  moment  withdrawn  the  flask,  saying,  with  a 
scornful  laugh — 

*'Ah,  ah,  I  know  how  it  is;  they  were  talking 
of  it  at  the  "White  Calf.  You  would  catch  it  well, 
wouldn't  you?  The  old  beetle  ^vould  send  you 
about  your  business,  if  you  drank  only  one  single 
drop." 

"Here,  here!"  howled  Jan  Staers,  suddenly 
springing  forward,  and  grasping  the  flask  with  his 
hand,  as  a  wild  beast  clutches  his  prey. 

"Stop  there!  halloa!"  cried  the  other,  running 
after  him  round  the  room;  "only  one  drop;  I 
know  3^ou  of  old;  you  have  no  bottom  to  your 
mouth.     Give  me  back  the  flask!  give  it  me  V* 

Jan   Staerp  pTit  the  flask  to  his  mouth,  and 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  129 

pushed  the  sand-digger  violently  from  him.  For 
a  moment  there  was  a  kind  of  scuffle,  until  at 
length  Jan  Staers,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  gave 
back  the  flask  and  sank  down  on  his  chair  ex- 
hausted. 

The  sand-digger  looked  alternately  at  the  empty 
flask  and  at  his  panting  comrade,  in  mute  wonder. 

"  Oh,  be  oft*  with  you,  begone !  Fiend  that  you 
are,  you  have  stolen  my  soul,  you  have  murdered 
my  daughter,"  moaned  Jan  Staers,  as  if  beside 
himself,  and  shuddering  in  his  chair. 

"  Well,  that  is  good !"  grumbled  the  sand-digger. 
"What  rubbish  are  you  saying  now?  You  shall 
see  whether  I  won't  make  you  pay  for  your  drink. 
Here  I  am  assaulted  and  robbed  in  broad  daylight, 
as  if  I  were  in  a  wilderness.  Ah,  you  don't  like 
it;  you  are  afraid  it  will  burn  your  lips  !  I  shall 
go  up  yonder,  up  the  hill,  to  the  Spotted  Cow, 
and  drink  a  pint  of  the  best,  and  put  it  to  your 
account.  If  you  won't  pay  it  I  will  bring  you  up 
before  the  magistrate,  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Klaes 
Grils.  Stealing  is  stealing ;  they  locked  up  Frank, 
the  dung-carter,  for  six  months  for  finding  a  loaf 
worth  twopence  on  the  baker's  counter." 

The  sand-digger  took  two  steps  toward  the 
door,  as  though  to  leave  the  cottage;  then  he 
turned,  and  asked  again — 

"You  will  pay  it,  won't  you?  Then  we  shall 
still  be  good  friends,  anyhow.  Jan  Staers,  lad, 
how  ugly  you  look  with  your  great,  glassy,  staring 
eyes!     If  I  didn't  know  what  it  is  owing  tOj  I 


130  THE   CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

fihould  run  away  from  you  as  from  a  mad  dog. 
The  devil,  who  is  up  in  the  church  in  the  picture 
of  the  Last  Judgment,  and  you — why  you  are  as 
like  one  another  as  two  drops  of  gin — no,  1  mean 
two  drops  of  water.  But  Jan,  I  foi'got  to  ask  you : 
is  it  true  what  they  were  talking  ahout  in  the 
White  Calf,  that  the  old  beetle  has  taken  the  stone 
farm,  and  that  you  are  going  to  work  with  him  as 
his  servant?  on  your  own  property — that  is,  what 
was  your  own  property?  I  wish  that  word  'was' 
didn't  come  in,  don't  you,  Jan  ?  What  a  number 
of  beautiful  franc-pieces  we  should  have,  which 
are  gone  now !  So,  so — the  cure's  parable,  which 
used  to  make  you  rave  so,  when  you  were  half-seas 
over — the  parable  is  come  true  !  The  clay  cottage 
has,  after  all,  eaten  up  the  stone  farm-house  I  Ila! 
ha!  the  curd,  lad,  is  a  clever  man,  to  tell  true 
fifteen  years  beforehand!  So,  you  are  to  be 
servant  to  the  old  hair-splitter!  I'm  sorry  for 
3'ou;  you'll  have  to  work  like  a  slave — and  gin? 
yes,  indeed,  you  will  draw  your  gin  out  of  the 
well  with  a  bucket !" 

During  this  jeeiing  address,  Jan  Staers  had  re- 
mained sitting  in  his  chair,  with  his  unmeaning 
gaze  bent  on  vacancy.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  muscle 
of  his  body  moved ;  but  his  features  worked  with 
impetuous  emotions,  and  at  each  wound  which 
the  sand-digger's  gibes  inflicted  on  his  pride,  he 
clenched  his  teeth  more  rigidly  together,  and  his 
eyes  sparkled  and  glowed  with  an  ever  intenser 
flame  of  anger.     It  was  also  observable  that  the 


THE    CURSE   OF   THE    VILLAGE.  131 

drink  had  begun  to  fire  bis  brain,  for  bis  accus- 
tomed paleness  was  now  replaced,  even  on  bis 
forebead,  witb  a  warmer  tint. 

"Farewell !"  grumbled  tbe  sand-digger,  turning 
again  toward  tbe  door.  "Tell  your  master — tlie 
old  beetle — tbat  I  laugb  at  bini  and  despise  bim, 
for  all  bis  being  tenant  of  tbe  stone  farm-bouse." 

Jan  Staers  sprang  up,  and,  running  after  tbe 
sand-digger,  pulled  bim  back  into  tbe  room. 

"Wait,  wait  a  moment!"  be  exclaimed,  witb 
warmtb,  as  be  bent  over  tbe  box;  "I  will  go  witb 
you ;  I  will  pay  you  for  tbe  flask — up  yonder  in 
tbe  Spotted  Cow." 

"  Come,  now,  tbat's  sometbing  like !  ab,  you 
nave  some  money  in  a  box?  Wbile  you  are  about 
it,  bring  a  little  more.     Let  me  see — silver !" 

"Come  along!"  exclaimed  Jan  Staers,  dragging 
tbe  sand-digger  toward  tbe  door. 

But  wben  be  set  bis  foot  over  tbe  tbresbold,  it 
seemed  as  if  a  restraining  tbougbt  occurred  to 
him ;  perhaps  there  stood  before  bis  disquieted 
spirit  the  image  of  bis  daughter,  standing  with 
uplifted  bands,  imploring  him  to  have  pity  on 
himself  and  on  her.  He  leaned  against  tbe  door- 
post, and  stood  for  a  moment  trembling ;  but  the 
sand-digger  pushed  bim  out  into  tbe  street,  and 
followed  him,  carefully  closing  tbe  door  behind 
him.  Jan  Staers  w^alked  on  witb  uneasy  and  pain- 
ful rapidity,  and  made  for  an  oak  coppice,  as 
though  be  were  afraid  of  beijig  seen  by  any  one. 
When  they  reached  the  open  field,  all  was  still  and 


132  THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

solitary ;  so  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  there  was 
no  living  being  in  sight.  The  sand-digger  reeled 
and  staggered  after  him,  and  muttered,  quite  out 
of  breath,  "Eh,  Jan,  are  you  on  iire  anywhere 
that  you  run  so  fast?  but  I'll  beat  you  yet;  my 
legs  are  good  yet.  Oh,  there  I  go,  down  in  the 
mud !  They  call  this  keeping  the  roads  in  order — 
an  honest  man  can't  go  up  to  the  Spotted  Cow 
without  breaking  his  neck !  Here  I  am,  in  for  it. 
Jan,  Jan,  wait  a  bit ;  we  must  rest  a  little  there 
at  the  corner  of  the  wood,  at  Jem  Snoeks's." 

Running  on  thus,  and  stammering  as  he  went, 
the  two  boon-companions  disappeared  rapidly  be- 
hind the  angle  of  the  pine  grove. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  large  numbers  of 
men  were  seen  leaving  the  village,  and  returning 
homeward  through  the  roads  and  lanes  and  over 
the  fields.     The  service  was  over. 

When  Clara  entered  the  cottage,  a  joyous  smile 
played  on  her  lips. 

"Ah,  father  is  gone  out  to  walk,"  she  said,  gayly. 
"  This  is  the  first  time.  Now  things  will  go  better. 
He  will  come  round  by  degrees,  and  the  bitter 
vexation  that  gnaws  him  will  vanish  gradually. 
The  brewer's  wife  has  given  me  some  more  work. 
What  a  beautiful  neckerchief  that  was  in  the  sa 
cristan's  window !  it  was  so  gay,  it  quite  dazzled 
my  eyes.  I  shall  manage  it  famously ;  and  father 
shan't  know  a  moment's  peace  until  he  puts  it  on 
and  goes  with  me  to  church ;  as  for  the  worn-out 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  133 

rag  he  has  on  his  neck  now,  it  is  quite  a  disgrace 
to  be  seen  in  it.  And  he  knows  nothing  about  it. 
I  work  while  he  is  in  bed.  Come,  I  will  run  off 
to  Mother  Beth's  and  tell  her  the  good  news — and 
this  evening  we  will  have  such  a  nice  game  *at 
cards  —  and  the  loser  is  to  have  a  cleft  stick  fitted 
on  his  nose.  Oh,  how  merry  we  shall  be !  how 
we  shall  all  laugh  ! " 

Swiftly  as  a  bird  she  ran  out  at  the  door,  and 
disappeared  behind  the  wall  of  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER  X. 


"  GooD-day,  Mother  Torfs ;  what  fine  weather, 
kn'tit?" 

*'  Because  you  look  at  it  with  such  merry  eyes, 
Clara." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  am  very  well,  too." 

"  Sit  down  by  the  fire,  then ;  we  '11  have  a  little 
chat.     Does  all  go  well  yonder  ?  " 

"  Mother  Torfs,  my  father  is  gone  out  to  walk. 
This  is  a  sign  that  he  begins  to  get  used  to  his 
position,  and  that  he  is  shaking  ofl:'  his  gloom." 

"  Gone  out  to  walk?  Clara,  child,  it  is  a  holi- 
day ;  all  the  public-houses  are  wide  open." 

"  iN'o  no.  Mother  Beth ;  he  is  only  gone  for  a 
stroll  in  the  fields  to  get  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air. 
The  public-houses  ?  don 't  be  alarmed  about  them 

12 


134  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

If  my  fallier  had  wished  to  drink,  he  might  have 
done  so  any  day;  hut,  he  sure,  he  stands  firm  in 
his  good  resokition ;  and  if  he  hecomes  a  litt.e 
more  cheerful  in  mind,  I  don't  despair  hut  that  he 
will  quite  get  over  his  had  hahit." 

*'It  is  my  notion,  too,  Clara,  that  things  will  go 
on  Vv^ell.  Perhaps  something  may  turn  up  wrong, 
but  anyhow  Luke  shall  not  he  prevented  from — 
from  enahling  me  to  call  you  my  daughter.  Look 
you  well,  you  wouldn't  say  that  Luke  is  much 
like  his  father  outwardly ;  hut  inside,  they  are 
as  like  as  two  pins.  Luke  seems  patient,  and 
gentle,  and  easy  to  manage  as  a  child,  doesn't  he  ? 
Well,  for  all  that,  Luke  has  a  hard  head  on  his 
shoulders,  Clara;  and,  Uke  his  father,  whenever  he 
takes  any  thing  into  that  head  of  his,  you  will 
never  make  him  give  it  up.  Say  what  j^ou  like, 
and  try  all  you  can,  hoth  of  them  always  come 
hack  to  the  point  they  started  from.  They  are 
a  little  hit  ohstinate,  sure  enough:  it  runs  in  the 
hlood  of  the  Torfses — they  always  were  very  hard 
to  manage." 

"  But,  Mother  Torfs,  I  thought  Luke  was  to  be 
here  after  the  service  ?" 

"He  is  gone  with  his  father  to  the  St.  George's 
G  uild.  They  meet  to-day.  I  dare  say  it  will  be 
an  hour  before  they  come  hack." 

"  I  have  heard  say  that  they  are  going  to  choose 
Father  Torfs  as  Dean  of  the  St.  George's  Guild;  is 
it  true?" 

"It  seems  so;   hut  Torfs  hesitates.      lie  does 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  185 

not  like  to  have  his  head  troubled  with  cares.  You 
see  the  Guild  is  not  on  a  very  good  footing,  and  if 
Torfs  became  dean  he  Avould  want  to  set  it  all 
right:  for  he  would  rather  not  touch  a  thing  thau 
leave  it  half  done." 

"  But  it  would  be  such  a  nice  thing  for  Farmer 
Torfs  to  be  dean.  Only  think,  Mother  Beth, 
what  an  honor  for  the  family !" 

"Ha!  ha!  Clara  dear,  you  make  me  laugh. 
You  good-for-nothing  girl,  you  are  always  caring 
for  the  honor  of  the  family !  You  seem  to  think 
it  is  Palm  Sunday,  and  that  Easter  is  at  the  door ! 
— But,  laughing  aside,  I  was  saying  just  now  that 
the  Torfses  are  made  of  vei'y  stubborn  stuft'.  If 
you  were  to  say  that  obstinacy  was  wrong,  yoM 
would  have  them  both  down  upon  you.  You 
must  know,  then,  that  they  never  decide  on  any 
thing  without  keeping  it  at  least  four-and- twenty 
hours  working  in  their  heads  ;  sometimes  they  will 
run  about  with  a  thought  in  their  brains  for  months 
and  years  before  they  say  it  must  be  done.  And 
if  you  find  fault  with  them, — oh,  it  is  manhj^  and 
they  can't  see  any  harm  in  it.  But,  after  all,  the 
Torfses  are  capital  workers,  and  they  do  their 
duties  carefully  and  accurately  both  toward  God 
and  tow^ard  man.  Yes,  often  so  good  and  so 
strict,  that  you  may  happen  to  get  a  good  scolding 
if  you  hint  they  are  wrong  in  any  thing  they  do." 

"  I've  got  something  in  my  head.  Mother  Beth. 
Couldn't  they  make  Luke  dean  of  the  St.  George's 
Guild?" 


136  THE   CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

"  Oh,  you  little  goose,  he  is  much  too  young. 
I  don't  know  what  you  sit  there  dreaming  about. 
Clara,  Clara,  you  mustn't  be  so  proud.  Honor 
and  renown,  look  you,  all  that  is  but  wind.  -Just 
blow  on  your  hand ;  you  will  feel  something,  and 
think  it  is  something  real,  and  it  is  nothing  after 
all.  I  was  saying  the  Torfses  had  a  will  of  their 
own.  You  must  know  how  to  manage  them  when 
thej^  take  a  whim  in  their  heads.  Look :  if  things 
should  ever  go  so  far  as  that  you  should  sit  here 
by  the  fire,  and  be  called  Dame  Torfs — you  laugh, 
eh? — then  you  must  take  good  care  to  notice 
what  Luke  has  in  his  head ;  and  if  you  think  that 
he  is  going  to  do  or  undertake  any  thing  that  is 
hazardous,  then  begin  betimes  your  observations 
on  it,  and  never  give  over; — ^you  may  have  to  talk 
a  long  time,  but  never  give  over,  till  he  has  given 
up  his  project.  If  you  can't  get  the  better  of  his 
whim,  and  if  he  has  once  made  a  resolution,  don't 
bother  him  any  more.  You'll  never  move  the 
Torfses." 

"  Oh,  mother,  where  people  love  one  another, 
every  thing  goes  smoothly." 

"No,  no,  child,  nothing  in  the  world  goes 
smoothly.  "What  you  must  take  care  of  especially 
is,  that  you  never — never,  do  you  hear? — allow 
him  to  remain  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  public- 
house  from  the  time  of  your  marriage.  As  soon  as 
you  notice  any  thing  of  that  kind,  then  begin  to 
be  vexed,  and  peevish,  and  look  sour,  and  scold, 
and  so  on,  without  ceasing.     Men  can't  stand  out 


THE    CTTRSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  137 

ftgainst  that,  and  they  will  do  any  thing  we  like  to 
1)6  quit  of  our  everlasting  seesawing  on  one  thing, 
as  they  call  it.  Of  that  curse  of  our  villages,  of 
gin,  I  shall  not  say  much  to  you  ;  you  have  had  a 
melancholy  example  of  its  consequences  before  your 
eyes  all  your  life  long,  and  so  has  Luke ;  hut  who 
knows  ?  some  bad  luck,  or  some  trouble ;  they  take 
a  drop  to  drown  their  vexation,  they  say,  and  then 
it  is  all  over  with  them.  Just  look,  in  the  village 
over  yonder,  on  the  Lysterbcrg,  the  weaver  Tist 
Mees ;  he  was  for  forty  years  an  honest  man,  who 
earned  his  bread  honorably.  He  had  five  children, 
and  one  of  them  was  killed  by  a  kick  from  one  of 
the  brewer's  horses.  Tist  Mees  was  almost  beside 
himself  with  grief;  by  the  advice  of  some  bad 
friends  he  tasted  gin  for  the  first  tim'e,  just  to  cheer 
himself  up,  as  they  said.  It  was  all  over  with  him : 
the  poor  weaver  became  a  drunkard,  and  went  fast 
to  ruin.  To  console  himself  for  the  loss  of  one 
child,  he  has  brought  the  four  others  to  beggary, 
and  made  them  miserable.  Clara,  child,  if  things 
don't  mend  in  our  villages  with  this  wretched  gin- 
drinking,  depend  on  it  we  shall  hear  of  some  sad 
doings.  If  it  were  only  the  drunkards  themselves 
who  suffered,  we  might  say  that  it  served  them 
right — they  reaped  as  tliey  sowed ;  but  that  wife 
and  children,  sometimes  even  father  and  mother, 
should  have  to  suffer  hunger,  and  shed  tears  of 
grief  and  shame — that  is  not  as  it  should  be ;  and 
I  say  that  drunkards  can  have  no  hearts  in  their 
bodices,  to-  forget  their  poor  lambs  in  such  an  inliu- 

12* 


138  THE  CURSE  or  the  village. 

man  way,  and  knowingly  and  willingly  make  them 
suffer  so  much.  You  are  sitting  so  still,  Clara; 
I  dare  say  you  have  not  been  listening  all  the 
time,  and  are  thinking  of  something  else." 

"  I  am  sad,  Mother  Beth :  your  words  make  mo 
afraid.  You  talk  as  if  Luke  could  ever  get  a 
liking  for  gin.  There's  no  reason  in  that,  now. 
Oh,  God !  is  the  world  then  so  far  gone  that  we 
cannot  he  sure  of  those  we  love  from  one  day  to 
another?" 

"You  must  not  be  vexed  about  it,  Clara;  but 
for  all  that,  look  you,  you  must  always  keep  your 
eyes  wide  open.  One  thing  more  you  ought  to 
know  well.  The  w^ife  seems  to  be  the  slave  in  a 
family,  and  always  to  be  obedient ;  but  it  is  only 
in  appearance^  child.  Of  a  hundred  households, 
ninety  are  just  what  the  wife  has  made  them,  or 
allowed  them  to  become.  So  you  must  always  be 
up  very  early,  earlier  than  the  servants,  and  take 
care  that  evei-ybody  goes  to  his  work  in  good  time. 
Never  let  them  stay  up  longer  than  necessary  at 
night ;  it  only  wastes  oil,  and  makes  them  lazy  at 
their  work.  You  must  give  a  good  example  to 
everybody;  for  where  the  farmer's  wife  likes 
sitting  about,  or  crossing  her  arms,  there  the  cart 
runs  out  of  its  proper  track,  and  the  horse  remains 
in  the  stable  uselessly  nibbling  his  ha}^  You 
must  be  neat  and  clean  in  every  thing,  Clara; 
cleanliness  in  a  household  cheers  the  heart  and 
gladdens  the  soul.  And  economy,  Clara,  economy 
is  the  first  duty  of  a  wife.     Men,  you  see,  arc  not 


TnE   CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE.  139 

Strict  enough  about  it ;  but  tbej  are  always  glad, 
after  all,  to  see  a  little  heap  of  money  in  a  corner 
of  the  chest,  though  they  never  ask  how  it  has 
been  gathered,  by  care  and  economy.  Let  nothing 
be  lost;  everything  has  its  value.  In  the  town 
there  is  a  man  who  became  rich  only  by  collecting 
old  iron  and  worn-out  clothes.  A  plate  that  has 
lost  a  piece  may  still  last  some  time ;  and  when 
it  breaks  in  pieces  at  last,  you  see,  it  breaks  in- 
stead of  the  new  one  that  you  might  have  bought. 
Anyhow,  it  is  a  plate  gained ;  and  so  it  is  with 
every  thing.  When  Luke  wants  to  throw  away 
his  waistcoat  or  his  blouse  because  they  are  worn 
out,  just  put  a  patch  here  and  there,  and  they  will 
last  six  months  longer.  And  then  you  must  be 
careful  not  to  spend  a  penny  at  the  milliner's. 
Out  of  an  old  pair  of  father's  trousers,  mother  can 
easil}^  make  a  new  waistcoat  for  her  eldest  boy; 
and  when  the  eldest  is  grown  out  of  it,  just  pass 
it  on  to  the  next,  and  so  on,  till  you  can  do 
nothing  more  with  it  but  cut  out  a  good  pair  of 
socks  for  father.  But  you  see,  Clara,  there  is  one 
thing  you  must  not  be  too  saving  in,  and  that  is 
eating.  I  don't  mean  that  you  should  have  dain- 
ties on  the  table;  no,  but  there  should  always  be 
enough.  It  is  a  mistake  to  try  to  save  out  of  the 
mouths  of  your  servants ;  it  never  answers  in  the 
long  run.  lie  who  works  hard  must  eat  well,  or 
he  will  never  hold  out.  What  you  lose  in  victuals 
you  gain  twice  over  in  work.  And  the  same  with 
cattle     Look  you,  when  we  bought  our  horse,  it 


140  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

was  lean  and  out  of  condition,  and  scarcely  fit  for 
work;  and  though  we  got  him  cheap,  we  thought 
we  had  made  a  very  bad  bargain.  But  we 
treated  the  poor  beast  well,  and  he  got  round,  and 
became  very  strong  again.  You  may  go  all  round 
the  neighborhood,  and  you  won't  find  a  horse  that 
will  do  so  much  work,  and  with  so  much  spirit. 
But  the  cows,  Clara,  the  cows,  if  you  don't  care 
for  them  and  look  after  them  as  if  they  were  your 
own  children,  you  will  never  get  on  in  farming. 
Cows,  do  you  see,  are  the  main  thing  in  farming; 
and  it  takes  a  good  deal  of  skill  to  get  out  of  them 
all  that  is  in  them,  and  improve  their  condition  all 
the  time.  I'll  tell  'you  how  to  manage  it.  I  once 
heard  the  cure  preach — I  don't  remember  now  what 
it  was  about — but  he  was  telling  us  about  the  false 
gods  of  some  of  the  folk  that  lived  a  long  time 
ago.  Some  went  and  bowed  down  to  the  sun  or 
to  the  moon,  some  to  an  elephant,  some  to  a  bird, 
or  any  thing  else ;  but  there  was  one  country 
where  they  had  a  notion  that  cows  and  oxen  were 
gods,  and  so  out  of  reverence  they  would  not  kill 
them  nor  eat  them.  Thinks  I  to  myself,  these 
people,  poor  creatures,  they  don't  know  any  better, 
but  they  weren't  so  far  wrong  after  all ;  for  you 
see,  Clara,  the  cow  is  the  queen  of  all  cattle, 
and  the  greatest  benefactor  to  men.  Without 
the  cow,  man  would  never  be  able  to  work  the 
land ;  and  like  too  many,  even  now-a-days,  they 
would  eat  one  another  up  for  hungcfl-,  if  God 
hadn't  created  the  cow.     Clara,  child,  what  ails 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE.        141 

you  now?  You  look  as  if  you  had  a  tear  in 
your  eye." 

"Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  stammered  the  girl;  "I 
was  thinking  of  my  poor  white  mammy,  who 
supported  us  so  long,  and  then  was  killed  at  last 
before  her  time.  All  you  say  is  very  true,  Mo- 
ther Beth." 

"  Yes,  if  you  have  been  listening  to  all  I  have 
been  saying,  I  fancied  your  wits  were  w'ool- 
gathering  a  little  bit;  Luke  was  skipping  about 
in  your  head,  wasn't  he,  now  ?  Well,  well,  it  is 
natural  enough." 

''1^0,  Dame  Torfs,  you  are  mistaken;  I  have 
been  listening,  listening  very  attentively,  and  I 
thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  your  good  advice. 
Your  words  made  me  feel  a  little  sad ;  I  did  not 
know  that  it  was  so  serious  a  matter  to  be  mistress 
of  a  house,  but  now  I  begin  to  have  a  little  notion 
of  it." 

"Yes,  yes ;  this  book  isn't  so  easily  read  through. 
Only  wait  a  bit  till  we  come  to  the  chapter  on 
children.  We  had  three,  but  my  little  Mieken 
and  Pietje  went  to  heaven  when  they  w^ere  about 
seven  years  old.  It  is  too  early  yet  to  talk  about 
them;  you  will  find  it  all  out  soon  enough.  I 
was  going  to  tell  you  something  about  the  stable 
and  the  sheep,  but  I  fancy  I  hear  Torfs's  footstep. 
Come,  we  will  get  out  the  cards." 


142  THE   CURSE   OF   THE    VILLAGE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Old  Torfs  and  his  son  entered  the  house  at  that 
moment.  Luke  went  straight  toward  Clara,  who 
had  risen  as  they  came  in,  and  talked  quietly  with 
her.  The  sweet  smile  which  lighted  up  both  their 
faces,  and  the  joyous  gestures  of  Clara,  showed 
that  the  maiden  was  busy  in  telling  her  lover  how 
her  father  had  gone  out  to  walk  in  the  fields  to 
refresh  himself  a  little. 

*'Well,  now,"  exclaimed  Mother  Beth  to  her 
husband,  "how^  have  things  gone  up  yonder?  you 
are  surely  not  dean?" 

"No,  no,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  laugh,  "they 
spared  no  pains  indeed,  but — " 

"Yes,  yes,  father;  but  tell  it  right  out,"  said 
Luke,  interrupting  him.  "Ay,  indeed!  only 
fancy,  mother,  they  had  elected  father,  and  thero 
he  sat  pondering  and  weighing,  like  he  does  when 
lie  is  in  doubt  about  any  thing.  I  saw  by  the 
shaking  of  his  head  that  he  was  going  to  accept 
it,  but  I  stepped  gently  on  his  toe,  and  then  he 
said :  *  I  thank  you  for  the  honor  you  have  done 
me,  but  my  last  word  is — no  !'  Everybody  knows 
father;  so  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  but, 
"Tis  a  great  pity !'  and  so  they  all  said." 


THE    CURSE    OV   THE   VILLAGE.  143 

^^Well,  come,  come,  Torfs!  said  Mother  Beth, 
jestingly,  "your  mouth  watered  after  all  to  be 
dean,  did  it?" 

"  There  is  something  in  it,"  answered  the  old 
man.  "  When  ^^ou  sit  down  among  all  your  old 
fi'iends,  wdio  beg  j^ou  and  coax  you,  and  mean  to 
give  you  a  token  of  their  respect  and  affection  !  I 
was  affected  by  it  a  great  deal,  and  it^gave  me 
great  pain  when  I  found  my  refusal  vexed  them. 
But  don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  it ;  let  us 
rather  have  our  game — that  will  put  the  matter 
out  of  my  head.  Where  is  Jan  Staers  ?  I  asked 
him  to  come  at  half-past  three,  and  now  'tis  four 
o'clock." 

"Father  is  gone  out  to  walk  in  the  fields,"  said 
Clara.  "  He  wanted  to  get  a  mouthful  of  air  to 
freshen  him  up.  I  told  him,  Farmer  Torfs,  that 
you  wished  him  to  go  out  to  walk,  and  then  he  did 
it  with  pleasure.  He  will  come  in  a  moment ;  per- 
haps he  hasn't  heard  the  clock  strike." 

"  So  !  he  is  gone  out  ?  that's  all  right.  But  we 
will  begin  while  we  are  waiting  for  him.  Sit 
down  at  the  table — no,  no,  Luke  mustn't  sit  by 
Clara;  they  help  one  another;  we  must  play  fair." 

They  arranged  themselves  around  the  little 
table,  and  old  Torfs  took  the  pack  of  cards  and 
began  to  deal. 

"  Three  of  trumps  !"  exclaimed  Clara ;  "  twenty. 
Knave  and  queen,  sixty!  I  shall  win.  I  knew 
you  would  lose,  Luke.  I'll  fit  you,  this  time,  a 
saddle  on  your  nose,  which  shan't  be  made  of 


144        THE  CURSE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

etraw,  I  assure  you.  You  had  better  look  sharp, 
lad,  I've  got  it  all  ready." 

She  held  up  a  thick  piece  of  wood  with  a  cleft 
in  it,  and  said,  with  a  loud  laugh,  "Look,  there 
is  a  saddle  for  you !  this  will  pinch  your  nose  so 
that  you  will  cut  twenty  different  faces  in  a 
minute !" 

"Bless  me!  is  it  possible?"  said  Mother  Beth, 
laughing :  "  you  have  got  the  thickest  stick  from 
the  bakehouse.     Suppose  I  lose  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  then  we  will  make  the  cleft  a  little 
deeper  and  easier  for  you.  This  is  only  for  Luke. 
This  will  teach  him  how  to  tease  me  again,  as  he 
did  the  other  day." 

"  Come,  come,  do  you  call  this  playing  at  cards?" 
drily  remarked  old  Torfs. 

"My  nose  is  beginning  to  be  sore  already," 
muttered  Luke.  "I  believe  you  have  sorted  the 
cards  on  purpose  for  me.  Eights  and  nines,  and 
not  a  single  trump  !" 

"Ten  of  spades !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  throw- 
ing the  card  on  the  table  with  an  air,  after  the 
peasant  fashion,  much  like  a  sledge-hammer. 

"Ace  of  spades,  and — the  trick  is  mine!"  said 
Mother  Beth,  exultingly. 

"Queen  of  hearts,"  she  continued. 

"I  won't  take  it,"  said  Clara;  "Father  Torfa 
shall  get  one  trick.  There,  nine  of  diamonds ! — 
and  now  my  turn.  Knave,  nine,  ace  of  trumps — 
one,  two,  three, — all  mine.  Luke  hasn't  got  one 
single  trick.     Here,  my  lad,  hold  up  your  nose." 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  145 

Luke  was  obliged  to  sit  with  the  cleft  stick  on 
his  nose,  without  touching  it  with  his  hand,  until 
the  second  game  w^as  played  out. 

The  piece  of  wood  which  Clara  fixed  on  his  nose 
must  have  pinched  him  well ;  hut,  though  the  tears 
almost  came  into  his  eyes,  he  made  such  odd  faces 
— probably  to  amuse  the  others — that  they  all 
burst  out  into  a  peal  of  laughter.  Clara  especially 
clapped  her  hands,  and  filled  the  room  with  her 
merry  voice. 

All  was  suddenly  quiet,  and  Luke,  as  if  ashamed, 
took  the  "saddle"  from  his  nose  and  threw  it  under 
the  table.  The  others  stood  up,  for  the  door  was 
opened,  and  Master  Knops,  a  farmer  of  the  village, 
entered  the  room. 

"Ah,  you  are  playing?"  said  he.  "I  am  vexed 
to  have  to  spoil  your  merriment ;  but  I  come  to 
tell  you  something  you  ought  to  know.  I  must 
tell  you;  you  would  rather  know  it  than  not." 

All  looked  at  him  with  cool  curiosity. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  "I  went  up  to  the 
Spotted  Cow  to  look  after  our  Thomas,  for  they 
are  always  trying  to  lead  our  young  folk  astray. 
Eighteen  years  old,  and  he  is  already  a  slave  to 
gin !  'Tis  enough  to  turn  all  my  hair  gray !  I 
didn't  find  Thomas  there :  but  as  I  came  back  I 
went  over  the  hill  and  through  the  pine  grove  to 
look  for  Thomas  at  Jem  Snoeks's.  I  heard  a  noise 
behind  the  stone  cross,  and  w^hom  should  I  find 
lying  there,  so  far  gone  that  he  couldn't  stand  on 
his  legs — " 

K  13 


146  THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE. 

All  his  hearers  turned  deadly  pale.  Clara  rested 
her  trembling  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"Who?  why,  the  sand-digger,"  continued  Mas- 
ter Knops. 

"Ah,  thank  God !"  shouted  Clara,  with  her  arms 
uplifted  toward  heaven. 

"Thank  God  !"  repeated  Knops.  "Yes  ;  but  I 
hadn't  gone  five  steps  before  I  found  another  lying 
there.  I  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  shook  him 
violently  to  rouse  him.  Well,  it  was  no  use ;  there 
he  lay  like  a  stone ;  he  had  scarcely  a  breath  left 
in  him.  You  may  guess,  perhaps,  Avho  it  was  ?  It 
was  Jan  Staers." 

Clara  fell  into  the  chair  with  a  piercing  shriek, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Luke  and 
his  mother  stood  pale  and  motionless,  as  if  stunned, 
in  the  middle  of  the  chamber.  The  countenance 
of  Farmer  Torfs  had  meanwhile  become  crimson ; 
his  lips  were  compressed  with  an  expression  of 
contempt  and  indignation,  and  he  stamped  his  foot 
heavily  on  the  floor. 

"I  have  only  to  say  further,"  remarked  Master 
Knops,  moving  toward  the  door,  "that  you  would 
do  well  to  take  a  wheelbarrow  to  fetch  the  drunk- 
ard home  to  his  house :  else  he  will  lie  there  all 
night.  As  for  leading  him  home,  you  need  not 
think  of  that :  he  has  no  feeling  nor  motion  left. 
Good-day,  all  of  you." 

Clara  sprang  up,  and,  stretching  her  hands  im- 
ploringly to  Luke  and  to  the  old  man,  she  exclaimed, 
amid  a  flood  of  tears- 


THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE.  147 

"Oil,  Master  Torfs,  oh,  Luke,  come — help  me — 
go  with  me!  Anyhow,  my  poor  father  can't  bo 
left  lying  there !" 

"  J.^"  shouted  the  old  man,  furiously,  "/go,  in 
the  face  of  everybody,  and  drag  this  ungrateful 
drunkard  along  the  road  ?  I  would  rather — I  know 
nothing  of  him  any  more;  I  have  never  known 
him.  All  is  broken  off  between  us.  And  you, 
Clara, — it  grieves  me  much;  but,  whatever  grief  it 
occasions  me,  I  know  no  more  of  you,  either,  my 
poor  child." 

Luke  stood  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground, 
transfixed  by  this  unexpected  blow,  and  trembling 
violently. 

"But,"  continued  Clara,  anew,  "I  cannot  carry 
my  father  by  myself  Let  all  be  broken  off  between 
us ;  perhaps  I  may  afterward  die  of  it — but  now — 
now — you  are  Christian  men,  are  you  not?  Do 
one  last  act  of  Christian  charity  and  pity  for  me! 
I  assure  you.  Father  Torfs,  never  again  will  I  set 
foot  over  your  threshold ;  I  understand  well  enough 
that  all  is  lost — lost — and  I  have  too  much  regard 
for  Luke  ever  to — 0  Lord !  O  my  God ! — I  im- 
plore you,  go  with  me.  Bring  my  father  to  his 
house — and  then  abandon  us  to  our  bitter  fate  !" 

Luke  had  at  the  same  time  clasped  his  hands, 
and  seemed  to  be  imploring  his  father's  permission 
to  follow  Clara.  Mother  Beth  looked  at  her  hus- 
band with  a  sad  and  inquiring  expression,  but  she 
dared  not  speak. 

The  maiden  fancied  that  she  saw  old  Torfs  waver 


148  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

in  his  decision ;  she  fell  before  him  on  her  knees, 
and  exclaimed — 

"  Oh,  I  shall  go  and  live  with  my  father  in  an- 
other village — far  from  here :  you  will  never  see 
us  again  !" 

The  old  man  raised  the  girl  from  the  ground,  and 
said,  with  his  head  erect  and  fixed — 

"  Well,  then,  out  of  love  to  you :  but  it  is  the 
last  time.  Come,  Luke,  we  will  go  and  see.  But 
that  I  should  ever  dream  of  such  a  thing !  Let  me 
never  hear  of  him  again — of  him  or  of  any  thing 
that  belongs  to  him — whether  here  or  at  a  distance 
— else  I  will  make  you  know,  Luke,  that  I  am 
master!" 

Mother  Beth,  overcome  by  her  emotion,  sat  down 
on  a  chair  and  began  to  weep,  as  she  saw  her  hus- 
band and  her  son  go  out  at  the  door  with  Clara. 

The  shortest  way  to  reach  the  hill  w^here  Jan 
Staers  was  lying,  according  to  Master  Knops's  state- 
ment, was  through  the  village  street,  and  Clara,  in 
her  affectionate  impatience,  tried  to  lead  old  Torfs 
in  that  direction ;  but  he  took  the  way  throngh  the 
fields,  without  paying  any  attention  to  her,  and 
thus  soon  reached  the  pine  grove.  Here  he  slack- 
ened his  speed,  and  resumed  his  ordinary  pace,  and 
broke  the  silence  by  saying,  in  a  tone  of  deepest 
dejection — 

"It  is  such  a  pity,  too!  All  was  so  nicely 
arranged!  I  had  planned  eveiy  thing  beforehand 
in  my  head :  how  I  should  behave  to  make  him 
feel  that  I  was  indeed  as  a  brother  to  him,  and 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE.  149 

eonvince  him  that  he  should  he  quite  on  an  equality 
with  me.  You  would  have  heen  married  before 
Easter,  children;  you  would  have  lived  on  this 
little  farm ;  and  Jan  Staers  was  to  have  lived  with 
me  in  the  stone  house,  and  we  should  have  worked 
together  to  leave  you  a  fair  inheritance  !  Ah !  it 
was  a  paradise  of  delights  to  us  all ;  and  the  reck- 
less, the  dastardly  drunkard — he  has  bartered  the 
happiness  of  his  child  for  a  drop  of  gin  !  You 
weep,  Clara !  my  dear  child,  you  may  well  weep ; 
you  are  indeed  in  a  miserable  plight.  God  will 
recompense  you  there  on  high  for  all  your  sorrow 
and  trouble  in  this  world." 

[N'either  Luke  nor  Clara  uttered  a  word.  The 
poor  girl  sowed  the  dreary  path  Avith  bitter  tears ; 
the  lad,  lost  in  utter  despair,  strode  along  by  his 
father's  side  without  consciousness  of  feeling;  only 
at  intervals  a  deep  sigh  relieved  his  laboring  breast. 

The  old  man  continued,  in  a  melancholy  tone  of 
voice — 

"You  see,  children,  you  must  be  reasonable. 
You  know  I  have  done  all  that  Avas  possible  to  see 
you  happy ;  but  if  you  don't  put  every  thought  of 
the  past  out  of  3'our  heads  now,  do  you  know  what 
the  consequences  will  be  ?  You  will  then  darken 
and  embitter  the  life  of  the  poor  worn-out  old 
Torfs  and  of  Mother  Beth ;  and  their  last  daj^s  will 
be  days  of  shame,  and  vexation,  and  sorrow." 

*'0h,  don't  imagine  it!"  exclaimed  Clara,  with 
a  voice  almost  smothered  with  tears  and  sobs.  "I 
kuow  well  what  will   become  of  me;   n]y  little 

13* 


150  THE    CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

corner  in  the  churchyard  is  marked  out  ah'eadj. 
But  it  is  all  the  same;  I  will  never  make  you  un- 
happy,— you,  my  dear  benefactor;  I  shall  forget 
Luke — forget  him  and  never  think  of  him  any 
more — except  only  to  pray  God  on  my  knees  to 
grant  him  a  long  and  happy  life." 

A  suppressed  groan  broke  from  the  breast  of  the 
young  man. 

"And  you,  Luke,"  sobbed  the  poor  girl,  "for- 
get me  too ;  it  must  be  so.  And  if  you  will  sliow 
me  a  kindness  when  you  shall  see  me  no  more, 
ah,  think  of  my  poor  father  in  your  prayers,  that 
God  may  at  least  have  mercy  on  his  unhappy  soul 
before  he  dies!" 

"Clara,  dear  child,  3'ou  talk  like  a  reasonable 
girl,"  said  the  old  man,  deeply  affected.  "I  feel 
it  much;  I  love  you  so  well  that  I  would  give  half 
my  property  to  deliver  you  from  your  miserable 
condition ;  but  God  has  decreed  otherwise.  Luke, 
my  dear  boy,  be  you  too  of  good  courage ;  accept 
your  lot  with  patience;  assure  your  old  father  that 
you  too  will  lay  aside  a  vain  hope." 

The  youth  stood  still  in  the  road,  his  every  limb 
convulsed  with  emotion,  and,  turning  toward  his 
father,  he  said,  with  a  firm  voice  and  resolved 
countenance — 

'Lay  it  aside?  forget  her?  no,  never!  Clara 
is  deceiving  you ;  she  tells  a  lie.  Forget  me  ?  sho 
can't  do  it !  I  lay  my  life  on  it,  let  her  try  as  much 
as  she  likes,  she  can't  do  it !  Ah,  do  you  think, 
father,  that  'tis  enough  to  say,  'I  will  never  think 


THE    CURSE   OF    THE   VILLAGE.  151 

of  lier  again'  ?  The  faithless  thing,  she  may  forget 
me,  if  she  can ; — Luke,  mind  you,  is  no  weather- 
cock, to  turn  whichever  way  the  wind  blows.  It 
has  grown  right  into  my  heart,  and  it  cannot  bo 
rooted  out,  as  long  as  I  live  !" 

"Luke,  Luke,"  murmured  the  old  man,  re- 
proachfullj^,  '*  you  will  then  make  your  old  father 
and  mother  wretched?" 

"l!To,  no  !"  exclaimed  the  youth,  with  fiery  im- 
petuosity. "I  will  never  again  speak  of  Clara, 
never  see  her  again,  avoid  her — out  of  love  to 
you,  father ;  but  never,  never  shall  I  love  another. 
I  will  wait,  wait  long  years ;  even  if  my  hair 
grows  gray  in  waiting.  Clara  shall  be  one  day 
my  wife — unless  death  shall  remove  one  or  both 
of  us  from  the  earth." 

The  maiden  had  listened  to  these  words  of 
despair  with  a  shudder.  Unable  to  restrain  her 
emotion  any  longer,  she  sprang  to  Father  Torfs 
and  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  let  her 
head  fall  on  his  bosom,  and  then,  as  though  she 
would  deprecate  the  wrath  of  the  old  man,  she 
said,  in  a  beseeching  tone — 

"  Oh,  Torfs,  forgiveness  ! — forgive  him  1" 

The  expression  of  the  old  man  changed  suddenly; 
he  put  the  girl  aside  with  gentle  force,  and  said — 

"  Silence  !  people  are  coming  yonder.  Come, 
let  us  make  haste." 

And  all  stepped  out  along  the  road  with  quick- 
ened pace.  They  cast  down  their  eyes,  and  did 
not  look  about  them,  hoping  that  the  peasants  who 


152  THE    CURSE    OF   THE    VILLAGE. 

were  coming  toward  them  would  pass  by  without 
interrupting  them  or  remarking  their  emotion;  but 
already  one  of  the  villagers  began  to  shout  from 
a  distance — 

*'IIa,  you  are  looking  after  Jan  Staers,  I  sup- 
pose ?  lie  has  sat  it  out  well  this  time  !  But  you 
won't  find  him  in  the  Spotted  Cow;  he  is  gone  off 
with  the  sand-digger — if  you  can  call  it  going,  for 
they  were  tumbling  about  like  blind  people,  feeling 
with  their  hands  from  tree  to  tree." 

"Look  you,  now,"  said  a  second,  with  a  sneer; 
"  didn't  I  tell  you,  Farmer  Torfs,  that  you  could 
never  wash  a  blackamoor  white?" 

The  old  man  passed  them  quickly,  without  re- 
turning any  answer,  and  at  length  reached  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  on  the  top  of  which  stood  the  cross 
which  preserved  the  memory  of  the  wretched 
Durinkx.  Having  reached  this  eminence  in  the 
pine  wood,  they  looked  a  while  among  the  trees, 
and  very  soon  found  Jan  Staers,  lying  stretched 
out  at  full  length  on  the  ground. 

Clara's  father  must  have  moved  about  in  some 
violent  way.  Perhaps  he  had  been  seized  with 
cramp,  or  with  strong  convulsions ;  for,  as  he  lay 
there  on  his  back,  the  ground  at  his  feet  was  quite 
ploughed  up  with  the  stamping  of  his  heels,  and 
each  of  his  clenched  hands  was  full  of  grass  and 
fir-cones  which  he  had  seized  in  clutching  at  tho 
ground  and  had  crushed  between  his  fingers.  His 
eyes  were  open  and  glassy,  his  lips  blue. 

Clara  uttered  a  mournful  cry,  and,  falling  on  her 


THE    CURSE    Oh'  THE    VILLAGE-  158 

knees,  she  took  her  father's  hand  and  bathed  it 
with  tears.  The  old  man  and  his  son  knelt  also 
by  the  side  of  Jan  Staers,  called  him  by  his  name, 
shook  his  head  and  his  limbs,  but  could  not  suc- 
ceed in  eliciting  the  least  sign  of  feeling  or  life. 
With  tears  on  his  countenance,  old  Torfs  shook  his 
head  in  deep  thought.  He  made  a  sign  to  his  son 
to  keep  quiet,  and  then  stooped  his  head  over  the 
breast  of  Jan  Staers,  as  though  to  listen  whether 
he  still  breathed. 

"Loosen  his  neckerchief,"  said  he  to  his  son; 
"it  will  relieve  him." 

"  Eh !  what  are  you  at  there  ?"  stammered  a 
voice  from  between  the  trees.  "  Go  your  own 
ways,  and  let  people  sleep  quietly." 

"It  is  the  sand-digger,"  muttered  Luke,  angrily. 
"The  despicable  scoundrel  is  the  cause  of  all  this 
misfortune !" 

The  sand-digger  had  meanwhile  raised  himself 
on  his  elbow,  and  gazed  with  wonder  and  derision 
on  what  was  taking  place  beside  him. 

"Yes,"  he  hiccuped  anew;  "call  him  again! 
you  won't  get  him  home  till  morning.  lie  wanted 
to  drink  gin  against  me  !  I'll  soon  lay  him  on  his 
back.  Don't  you  see  that,  old  beetle  ?  holloa  ! — 
Farmer  Torfs,  I  mean.  You  cunning  old  fox,  you 
would  pay  him  to-morrow,  would  you?  that  the 
bird  mightn't  take  wing  to-day.  Ah,  well,  but  he 
had  a  little  box  in  his  chest — " 

A  shrill  cry  broke  from  the  hearts  of  Clara  and 
of  Luke  at  the  same  moment. 


154  THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  father,  in 
amazement. 

"  Oh  !  it  is — it  is  horrible  !"  shrieked  the  yonth. 
"  Clara's  money !  the  pence  her  love  had  saved — 
for  which  she  had  worked  all  night  long.  Oh,  if 
he  were  not  Clara's  father,  I  would  run  away  from 
him.     God  has  cursed  him  !" 

The  poor  girl,  sobbing  and  wellnigh  fainting, 
laid  her  hand  on  the  young  man's  mouth. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  father,  tormented  by 
an  indescribable  anxiety,  "let  us  go  away  from 
this.  We  will  try  to  drag  him  down  the  hill. 
There  below,  at  Master  Ylym's,  Ave  can  get  a 
w^heelbarrow." 

The  old  man  took  the  insensible  body  in  his 
arms,  Luke  held  his  legs,  and  so  they  dragged 
him  along  slowdy  and  with  difficulty  over  the  un- 
even ground,  and  down  the  hill.  Clara  followed 
in  silence;  her  tears  flowed  in  streams  over  her 
cheeks,  and  when  she  heaved  a  sigh  it  sounded  like 
a  wail  of  utter  despair. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  Jan  Staers  suddenly  drew 
up  all  his  limbs  together,  and  a  hoarse  rattle  was 
heard  in  his  throat.  The  two  who  were  carrying 
him  uttered  a  cry  of  joyful  surprise;  they  laid 
him  down  on  the  ground,  and,  together  with  Clara, 
stooped  over  him  to  trace  on  his  countenance  the 
signs  of  returning  life.  But  the  hope  was  vain; 
not  the  slightest  movement  could  be  detected  in 
his  now  extended  body. 

Farmer  Torfs  grew  pale.    A  melancholy  convic 


THE    CURSE    OF  THE   VILLAGE.  155 

tion  took  possession  of  him ;  he  concluded  that 
this  last  sign  of  life  in  Jan  Staers  was  really  the 
convulsive  shudder  of  death. 

"Run,  run,  Luke!  fetch  the  wheelharrow !"  he 
exclaimed;  "quick — ^make  haste!"  lie  laid  his 
hand  on  Clara's  head,  and  said,  with  a  sigh  of 
profound  commiseration,  "Poor  Clara,  hapless 
child,  God  be  gracious  to  thee !" 

The  sorrowful  girl  knelt  again  by  her  father 
without  reply,  and  held  his  ice-cold  hand  pressed  to 
her  lips,  calling,  amid  her  sobs,  "Father,  father!'* 

Luke  soon  came  running  with  the  wheelbarrow ; 
he  helped  his  father  to  place  the  nerveless,  relaxed 
body  upon  it,  and  set  forward  without  delay  along 
the  field  path  that  led  toward  the  cottage  of  Jau 
Staers. 

The  old  man  had  taken  Clara's  hand,  and  was 
trying  to  alleviate  her  distress  by  words  of  conso- 
lation. He  concealed  from  the  poor  girl  his  own 
apprehensions,  and  tried  to  persuade  her  that  her 
father  would  be  all  right  again  after  a  long  night's 
rest.  Moved  by  pity,  he  assured  her  that  he  would 
help  her  in  secret,  and  never  forsake  her  in  her 
hour  of  need,  so  long  as  he  could  assist  her  with- 
out involving  his  whole  family  in  misery  and 
in  shame. 

The  maiden  murmured  some  few  signs  of  quiet 
p-ratitude,  but  had  not  strength  to  express  her 
leelings  in  connected  words.  She  kept  her  eyes 
on  the  pallid  face  of  her  father,  in  deep  suspense, 
and  was  frequently  so  agitated  by  fear  and  alarm 


156  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

that  her  hand  trembled  and  shook  in  that  of  the 
old  man. 

They  were  fortunate  enough  to  arrive  at  Jan 
Staers's  door  without  meeting  any  one.  They 
lifted  the  body  from  the  wheelbarrow  and  laid  it 
on  a  bed.  The  girl  drew  a  chair  forward,  sat  down, 
and  with  a  bitter  groan  let  her  head  fall  on  the 
breast  of  her  father.  But  the  old  man  took  her 
by  the  arm  and  forced  her  to  rise,  saying — 

"Clara,  quick,  run  for  the  doctor;  tell  him  I 
will  pay  him  double  if  he  will  come  at  once,  with- 
out a  moment's  delay." 

The  maiden  looked  at  him  bewildered,  as  if  she 
did  not  understand  him ;  then  at  length  her  con- 
sciousness seemed  to  return,  and  she  said,  running 
to  the  door — 

"Ah,  thank  you  !  yes — the  doctor !" 

Farmer  Torfs  looked  after  her  sadly ;  then,  turn- 
ing to  his  son,  he  said,  with  a  solemn  voice — 

"Luke,  it  may  be  we  are  standing  beside  a 
corpse !  quick,  make  haste  and  call  the  cure.  If 
life  remains  in  him  he  may  yet  have  time  to  make 
his  peace  wuth  God.  Who  knows,  on  the  brink 
of  the  grave — " 

But  the  youth  had  not  waited  for  the  close  of 
his  father's  sentence,  and  was  already  far  on  his  way. 

Then  the  old  man  turned  toward  the  bed, 
crossed  his  arms  on  his  breast,  and  remained  thus, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  Jan  Staers ;  and 
from  time  to  time  he  shook  his  head  and  mur- 
mured  to  himself — 


THE   CURSE  OF   THE   VILLAGE.  157 

"There  are  so  many  who  begin  with  a  little 
drop,  and  anticipate  no  misery,  no  punishment; 
but  who  of  them  can  say,  ^  My  call  shall  not  be  like 
this'  ?  Poor  soul !  perhaps  thou  standest  already 
shuddering  before  the  judgment-throne  of  GodT* 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

It  was  in  the  year  1851,  in  the  first  week  of  Oc- 
Ijber.  Enticed  by  the  blight  autumn  days,  I  had 
ridden  into  Kempen,  intending  to  amuse  myself 
by  rambling  a  while  in  Hageland.  There,  in  a 
village  amid  the  ironstone  mountains,  dwelt  one 
of  my  old  friends,  who  was  the  vicar  of  the 
parish. 

He  had  taken  a  favorable  opportunity  to  give 
me  in  a  letter  such  a  poetical  description  of  the 
beauty  and  healthiness  of  his  village,  that  I  had 
felt  ev^er  since  a  strong  desire  to  accept  his  press- 
ing invitation  and  pay  him  a  visit. 

And  there  I  was,  in  this  lovely  country,  where 
the  ground  is  so  varied  wdth  hill  and  valley  that 
it  seemed  as  if  the  waves  of  a  raging  sea  had  been 
suddenly  arrested  and  petrified  during  a  tempest. 

I  had  been  taking  a  walk  with  my  good  friend 
the  vicar  round  the  neighborhood,  and  we  sat 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  stone  cross  on  the  hill  to 
rest  ourselves  for  a  few  minutes. 

We  talked  over  our  youthful  days.     He  told  me 

14 


158  THE   CURSE   OF  THE  VILLAGE. 

of  his  studies  in  the  seminary,  and  of  the  innei 
conflict  between  the  workl  and  God,  and  of  hia 
trying  to  choose  some  other  course  of  life,  of  liis 
final  victory,  of  the  tranquillity  of  his  mind,  of  the 
calm  happiness  he  now  enjoyed. 

I  told  him  all  about  my  soldier  life,  the  melan- 
choly death  of  some  of  our  old  friends,  who  were 
killed  by  my  side  at  Louvain  by  a  cannon  ball, 
the  ups  and  downs  of  literary  life,  the  hot  con- 
tentions of  political  parties,  the  resuscitation  of 
Flanders,  our  too  long  degraded  fatherland. 

And  thus  gossiping  of  poetry  and  of  poets,  of 
the  beauties  of  nature  and  reminiscences  of  our 
earlier  life,  we  saw  the  mist  of  evening  rise  slowly 
at  the  foot  of  the  little  wood,  and  creep  higher 
and  higher,  and  spread  itself  out  over  the  mea- 
dows, until  the  sun  had  sunk  far  below  the  western 
horizon.  The  rising  moon  was  glowing  like  an 
enormous  ball  of  fire  over  the  tops  of  the  dusky 
pines. 

We  betook  ourselves  leisurely  to  the  presbytery, 
where  I  was  to  enjoy  a  night's  hospitality.  After 
supper  we  remained  a  long  time  listening  with 
great  interest  to  the  stories  which  the  octogenarian 
cure  told  us  about  the  "Besloten  Tyd,"*  or  time 
of  concealment,  and  about  the  "Peasant  War." 

*  The  "  Besloten  Tyd"  is  that  time  in  our  history  when  the 
French  republic  had  closed  the  churches,  because  the  clergy 
refused  to  take  the  oaths  required  of  them.  They  said  mass  and 
preached,  during  this  time,  in  cellars  or  in  stables,  in  woods  or 
other  concealed  places. 


THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE.  159 

Pei-secnted  and  hunted  down  by  the  ferocious 
sansculottes,  he  had  sought  refuge  among  his 
armed  countrymen,  and  remained  among  these 
60-called  ^'  brigands,"  up  to  the  time  of  their  de- 
struction. By  a  chance  which  seemed  almost 
miraculous,  he  contrived  to  escape  when  the 
bodies  of  his  companions  lay  around  Ilasselt, 
pierced  with  sabres  and  weltering  in  their  blood. 

This  was  all  very  interesting  to  me,  as  I  was 
then  occupied  in  collecting  materials  for  writing  a 
tale  founded  on  this  last  and  famous  eftbrt  of 
Belgian  freedom  against  a  foreign  tyranny.* 

It  might  be  about  eight  o'clock  when  the  good 
cure  finished  his  narrative.  We  sat  talking  a 
little  while  about  one  thing  and  another,  until  the 
cure  looked  at  his  timepiece,  and  said  to  his 
vicar — 

"Don't  forget  your  promise  to  Fanner  Torfs." 

The  vicar  rose  up  and  put  on  his  hat,  and,  tak- 
ing a  book  from  the  table,  he  said  to  me,  "Friend 
Conscience,  I  must  go  in  haste  to  a  cottage  a  little 
way  off.  It  is  there  behind  the  brook,  a  few 
minutes  from  this.  I  shall  be  with  you  again  in 
half  an  hour.  In  the  mean  time  you  can  chat 
with  Mynheer  the  Cure." 

But  I  had  been  for  some  time  looking  with 
longing  eyes  at  the  upper  panes  of  the  window, 


*  The  tale  here  referred  to  is  ''The  War  of  the  Peasants:  & 
Historical  Sketch  from  the  Eighteenth  Century."  It  will  shortly 
appear  in  this  series. 


160  THE   CURSE   OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

through  which  the  pale  moonlight  streamed  in  so 
enticingly,  and  so  I  rose  from  my  chair,  and  said — 

"How  lovely  it  must  he  out  of  doors  now! 
Let  me  go  with  you;  I  will  wait  for  you  in  the 
road,  and  store  up  within  me  the  impressions  of 
this  heautiful  country  in  a  still  moonlight  night. 
Mynheer  the  Cure,  I  am  sure,  will  not  take  it 
amiss." 

"  Oh,  hy  no  means,"  said  the  aged  priest:  "my 
hour  has  struck;  I  am  off  to  bed." 

Scarcely  had  the  vicar  led  me  a  gunshot 
through  the  field  path,  when  he  pointed  out  to 
me  a  little  cottage,  which  stood  alone  on  the 
margin  of  the  brook,  surrounded  by  trees. 

I  could  not  help  admiring  the  humble  cottage 
which  rose  so  solitary  and  forlorn  out  of  the  level 
meadow  into  the  calm  night,  and  glittered  and 
sparkled  like  a  diamond  beneath  the  moonbeams. 
It  was  as  though  the  torch  of  night  had  concen- 
trated all  its  keenest  lustre  upon  it;  its  little 
windows  were  touched  up  with  many-tinted  light ; 
the  vineyard  behind  the  gable  shook  its  tendrils 
gently  on  the  sighing  breeze,  and  the  tops  of  the 
trees  waved  like  masses  of  molten  silver  over  the 
roof. 

"How  beautiful!"  I  exclaimed.  "It  stands 
there  like  a  work  of  enchantment." 

"  I  w^ill  tell  you  presently,  as  w^e  walk  back  to 
the  presbytery,  the  history  of  that  little  cottage," 
said  my  friend,  in  a  tone  of  sadness ;  "  it  will 
furnish  you  with  matter  for  a  touching  story,  if 


THE   CURSE   OF  THE   VILLAGE.  161 

you  will  only  change  the  names  of  persons  and 
places  so  that  no  one  may  recognise  them.  This 
cottage,  you  see,  friend  Hendrick — three  days  ago 
there  was  in  this  cottage  a  young  girl  who  dreamed 
of  happiness ;  who  looked  out  into  the  future,  and 
saw  every  thing  radiant  with  the  glad  light  of  her 
liope.  She  loved ;  she  was  to  have  heen  united 
to  the  heloved  of  her  heart  after  Easter.  In  her 
simplicity  she  could  not  keep  in  the  happiness  that' 
awaited  her,  after  a  whole  life  of  suifering  and  of 
shame.  When  she  met  our  old  cure  she  told  him 
all  that  was  in  her  pure  and  innocent  heart,  and 
how  she  could  not  sleep  for  joy.  She  was  to  be 
rich,  to  be  a  mother,  to  thank  God,  to  make  all 
about  her  happy,  and  to  scatter  around  her  the 
treasures  of  her  loving  soul  like, an  aureole  of 
quiet  gladness  and  energy — and  now  !" — 

My  friend  was  silent.  I  listened  for  more,  for 
the  tone  of  his  voice  indicated  something  very 
serious  and  thrilling. 

*' And  now?"  I  repeated,  with  curiosity. 

We  were  close  to  the  cottage ;  a  few  steps,  and 
we  should  reach  the  threshold. 

"And  now!"  continued  the  vicar,  leading  me 
toward  a  side-window.  "  Keep  still.  Look ;  thus 
is  it  now!" 

I  looked  through  a  pane  of  the  window.  A  shud- 
dering came  over  me,  and  I  could  scarcely  restrain 
the  cry  of  anguish  which  forced  itself  from  me  like 
a  stifled  groan. 

The  moou  filled  the  room  with  a  bluish  light, 

L  14* 


162  THE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE. 

and  gave  to  it  a  dismal,  ghostly  appearance.  On 
a  table  stood  a  crucifix,  between  two  tapers  of  yel 
low  wax,  whose  tiny  flames  flickered  like  two 
corpse-lights.  Three  or  four  persons — an  elderly 
dame,  an  old  man,  and  a  youth — were  kneeling  on 
the  floor.  I  was  alarmed  at  their  silence  and  their 
immobility.  They  were  like  stone  statues,  without 
life. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room,  on  two  chairs,  lay  a 
long  wooden  chest — a  coffin — and  at  its  head  a 
young  maiden,  whose  dishevelled  hair  fell  down 
in  waves  upon  the  coffin,  and  from  whose  cheeks 
a  flood  of  bitter  tears  streamed  on  the  fatal  wood. 

The  vicar  took  my  hand,  and  said,  as  he  led 
me  from  the  window,  "  Go  ofi"  to  a  little  distance ; 
walk  up  and  down  there  in  the  path.  Within  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  I  will  rejoin  you.  1  have  to 
say  some  prayers  here.  Preserve  the  impression 
of  what  you  have  seen ;  I  have  a  melancholy  story 
to  tell  you."  He  had  his  hand  already  on  the 
latch  of  the  door. 

"Who — who  lies  there? — in  the  coffin?"  I  asked, 
quite  unnerved. 

"A  drunkard!"  said  he,  as  he  entered  the  cot- 
tage. 

When  my  friend  left  the  lowly  cottage,  he  found 
me  standing  a  few  steps  from  the  door,  with  my 
arms  crossed  on  my  breast  and  my  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground.  He  then  began  to  tell  me  about  Jan 
Staers  and  Farmer  Torfs,  about  Mother  Beth,  and 
Clara  and  Luke.     The  histoiy  w^as  tolerably  long, 


THE    CURSE    OF    THE    VILLAGE.  163 

for  we  were  already  sitting  in  the  large  room  of 
the  presbytery  before  I  knew  who  the  personages 
were  that  I  had  seen  gathered  around  the  coffin. 

My  friend  advised  me  to  write  a  story  of  these 
incidents.  The  materials  seemed  touching  enough, 
but  hiy  heart  revolted  against  the  notion  of  bring- 
ing before  my  readers  a  picture  which  could  excite 
no  emotion  but  disgust. 

The  vicar  made  many  attempts  to  get  me  to 
understand  that  one  might  describe  vices  in  all 
their  mournful  hideousness,  if  only  true  feeling 
and  delicac}^  guided  the  pen,  and  if  one's  aim  were 
simply  to  inspire  a  horror  of  vice  and  a  love  of 
virtue ;  that,  besides,  my  tale  would  be  useful  to 
villagers,  and  that,  if  only  one  single  man  were 
rescued  from  destruction,  it  would  be  a  sufficient 
recompense  to  me. 

^I  observed  to  him  that  my  style  of  writing  led 
me  to  aim  at  vivid  and  striking  pictures,  and  I 
could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  use  the  colors  of 
my  palette  in  sketching  from  nature  so  degrading 
a  vice  as  drunkenness;  that  I  could  not  help  finish- 
ing my  pictures,  and  should  run  a  risk  of  present- 
ing scenes  which  would  brand  me  as  a  man  of  de- 
graded fancy. 

lie  then  adduced  the  instance  of  the  ancient 
Greeks,  who,  on  certain  days  of  the  year,  made 
their  slaves  drink  to  excess,  and  exhibited  them  to 
their  children  in  that  state,  to  root  in  their  tender 
minds  a  disgust  of  this  contemptible  vice. 

The  matter  remained  that  evening  undecided. 


164  THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE. 

When  I  was  leaving  the  presbytery  the  next 
morning,  my  friend  renewed  his  efforts.  Al- 
though the  night  had  somewhat  changed  my 
views,  I  did  not  venture  to  make  him  a  decided 
promise,  but,  after  a  hearty  farewell,  I  left  him 
with  these  words:  "I  will  think  it  over;  perhaps 
you  are  right." 


Three  years  have  gone  by  since  the  event  just 
related.  The  coffin  and  the  weeping  maiden  have 
often  crossed  my  fancy,  but  I  never  ventured  to 
attempt  compliance  with  my  friend's  wish.  But 
now  I  had  finished  my  larger  work,  "  Clovis  and 
Clotilda,"  about  two  months  since,  and  I  was  look- 
ing out  for  something  fresh ;  it  was  to  be  a  story  of 
village  life,  a  tendril  the  more  to  entwine  into  the 
wreath  of  hedge-flowers  that  I  had  promised  to 
weave  for  my  friends. 

While  I  was  sitting  musing,  with  my  head  on 
my  hand,  the  postman  brought  me  a  letter.  It  is 
from  my  friend  the  vicar.  What  can  he  have 
to  tell  me  ?  Since  my  visit  to  his  lovely  village  I 
have  not  heard  of  him.  The  letter  made  inquiries 
touching  my  health ;  then  went  on  to  speak  with 
wonder  and  animation  of  "  The  Dream  of  Youth," 
of  Flanders'  glorious  poet,  Van  Beers,  and  at  last 
concluded  thus : — 

"  — This  is  not,  however,  the  tme  motive  of  mj^ 


THE    CURSE    OF   THE   VILLAGE.  165 

etter.  Can  you  guess  why  I  write  ?  Perhaps  you 
may  yet  remember  the  coffin,  and  the  story  I  told 
you  in  connection  with  it.  I  have  waited  with 
some  impatience,  but  waited  all  in  vain,  for  the 
tale  you  were  to  write  about  it.  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten it  at  last ;  but  yesterday  it  all  came  back 
again  fresh  as  ever,  and  I  have  been  turning  it 
over  in  my  mind  all  the  day.  I  baptized  a  child 
yesterday,  a  plump  and  lively  youngster.  Guess 
now,  if  you  can,  w^ho  are  the  father  and  mother. 
Luke,  the  young  man,  who  was  kneeling  in  the 
room  of  the  little  cottage,  and  Clara,  the  girl  with 
the  flowing  hair,  who  lay  bending  over  the  coffin. 
They  were  married  about  a  year  ago,  and  they 
live  in  the  stone  farm-house  with  Farmer  Torfs 
and  Mother  Beth.  They  are  happy,  and  are  do- 
ing very  well.  There  is  some  talk  about  making 
old  Torfs  burgomaster  of  our  village  at  the  coming 
election.  Do  come  and  see  me  once  more ;  I  will 
take  you  into  the  stone  house,  and  we  will  drink 
some  coffee  there.  Well,  now,  there's  a  conclu- 
sion for  your  tale.  "Won't  you  write  it,  after  all?" 
The  next  day  I  despatched  a  letter  to  Hageland. 
The  first  lines  were:  "I  am  coming;  I  shall  be 
with  you  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  shall  be 
overjoyed  to  shake  hands  w^ith  Father  Torfs  and 
Mother  Beth,  and  Luke  and  Clara.  I  will  begin 
at  once  to  wTite  the  tale.  May  it  be  a  lesson  and 
an  example  to  some  poor  villager;  I  ask  nothing 
more." 


4 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjert  to  immediate  recall. 

24Mar5oin 

REC'D  LD 

MAR  17  1959 

' 

X 

i 

^i.Uto]l7eV'                               vJ^S^UpZrni. 

